


Gently Down The Stream.

by strawberrymango



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blue Lions Spoilers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post Time Skip, platonic dimitri byleth, please ignore any inaccuracies when it comes to the timeline im too dumb to understand war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-09-30 21:09:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 57,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20453597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrymango/pseuds/strawberrymango
Summary: “If I do this, I’m going alone,” Felix says because he’s not fabricating nor exaggerating when he says he’d rather travel alongside a Demonic Beast than Sylvain. “I’m not taking you with me.”“Aw, Felix, that hurts,” Sylvain pouts. “Don’t you want to spend some quality time with your childhood sweetheart?”“No.”Sylvain and Felix are tasked with delivering a message to Itha, the only problem is, they have to travel together for three days upstream in a tiny wooden rowboat to get there.





	1. The Message.

Training helps Felix focus, focus on what’s most important – the improvement of his skill. Nothing else matters, _should_ matter, other than the pursuit of perfection, especially not if he wants to surpass every expectation that’s ever been considered of him, the ones that way heavily upon his shoulders and burden him with every breath he takes. When he fights, his sword is a mere extension of his arm, an extra limb that he knows how to control better than his own emotions, and as he brings it down against Ingrid’s, all he can think of is besting his opponent. She’s no longer his childhood friend, she’s just a blade in the darkness that he must outsmart and force to concede.

Ingrid’s weapon clatters to the floor when their swords meet, and she holds up her hands in surrender, red faced and worn out from the hours Felix has kept her here to train. In truth, Byleth had been his first choice as a sparring partner; his unique mercenary style is always fun to fight against and Felix always leaves the training grounds with a new technique under his belt. But Byleth has been holed up in one of the office rooms pouring over war plans with Dimitri and Dedue for _hours,_ and Ingrid is the only person left at the monastery willing to give Felix the time of day.

“Ok, that’s enough,” she says. “I _need_ to eat now Felix.”

Training dummies are _useless_ and ultimately do nothing to satiate Felix’s desire for a challenge, and so he sheaths his sword too and decides to call it a day. That is, until he remembers he hasn’t yet practiced his prowess with the bow this week - an area that sorely needs attention if his performance in the last battle is anything to go by. A shot that should by all means have been fatal, had narrowly missed, merely _injuring_ the opponent charging at him rather than stopping the assault outright. It’s a mistake he hasn’t forgiven himself for quite yet and doesn’t intend to make again.

He doesn’t thank Ingrid before she leaves, because they should _all_ be training anyway, and wastes no time in setting up an archery range, taking advantage of the otherwise empty room by pulling obstacles in the way of the target to make things more challenging for himself. He forces his brain _not_ to think of all the times he’s set up the same course with both his father and brother as a young boy. It’s of no use thinking of people long dead, not when there’s a war raging around him, a war that’s drawing closer to its conclusion, and there people he needs to ensure stay _alive_ to see the end of it_._

Felix gets through four arrows before he’s interrupted.

“Hey Felix!” It’s Annette, lively and chipper, smiling with a book under her arm and a question in her eyes. Felix can never find it within himself to be his usual terse self around Annette, and so he lowers his bow and nods in acknowledgement.

“Hello, Annette.”

“The Professor wants to see you,” she says, rocking up on to her tiptoes to see over the training obstacles and count how many arrows Felix has lodged in to the target.

“What about?”

“Don’t know actually, I’m just the messenger. Although… he did ask me to stress that it was _urgent._”

Felix knows by now that when he’s summoned by the Professor, it’s almost _never_ urgent. He’s learned that the hard way, in the humiliating form of running himself silly to the other side of the monastery, only to find out that the Professor’s intention had been to force him to sit through a _surprise birthday_ _tea party_. He’ll never fall for that again as long as he still draws breath.

“I suppose I’d better get going then,” Felix huffs and mourns the loss of a valuable training session. He’d been making progress too.

“I’ll clean this up,” Annette insists, and Felix goes to protest, but she beats him to it. “I’m gonna bring Mercie down here. This archery game looks fun!”

Felix is about to tell her that it’s not a game, it’s an invaluable training technique used to hone precision and force quick thinking, but he hasn’t the heart nor energy to argue with her.

“Do whatever you want,” he says, hanging up his bow.

Despite knowing, deep down, that this ‘urgent’ matter is most likely some ridiculous and convoluted ploy to get Felix to leave the training grounds, his pace quickens on his way to Hanneman’s old office. He ascends the stairs two, three at a time, and doesn’t even bother reciprocating the nods of greeting from the various soldiers loitering in the halls. They spend way too much time standing idly by for his liking.

Felix knocks the door twice, rushed and rapid, and doesn’t wait for an invitation to enter before he swings the door open.

There is absolutely_ no_ sense of urgency about the room whatsoever, and Felix lets out a breath that’s a furious mix of both irritation and relief.

“Ah, Felix, there you are,” Byleth says, looking up from the map that’s spread out across the table, decorated with little wooden figurines that Felix knows are additions from Annette and her father. He’s not alone, either. Dimitri, Dedue and Sylvain are also seated around the desk, and Felix raises an inquisitive eyebrow at his professor.

“Take a seat,” Dimitri says, and Felix bites back a scathing insult just in time.

With a wink and a smile, Sylvain pats the chair next to his, but when Felix makes a point of taking the one furthest away from him, his smile dissolves in to petulant complaint.

“What’s all this about?” Felix asks because he’d much rather be back at the training grounds than sharing pleasantries around a table with a single one of these people. Because they may have all reached some level of understanding each other during these testing times, but Felix prefers to show his respect and loyalty through actions, rather than sipping tea and engaging in trivial debates.

“Well,” Byleth begins and gestures to the map, “there’s a stronghold in Itha that we need to make contact with.”

“It’s imperative,” Dimitri adds, working through the words slowly under his change of pace and ideology, “that we acquire more troops and provisions.”

“So send some soldiers. I’m not a messenger,” Felix makes to leave, but Sylvain reaches across the table and stops him with a hand on his arm. The touch feels like lightning, and Felix jerks it off with a scowl.

“We would,” Byleth explains, “but it’s a very important message. I’m not sure that I can entrust it to just _anyone_ and we need it done quickly.”

Felix hates this, because days spent uselessly travelling Faerghus are days that could be devoted to his pursuit of strength, in ensuring that he wins decisive battles to keep on fighting. He hates it even _more_ because the proposition makes sense, and it makes Felix seem altogether like a wailing brat throwing an ill-timed and selfish tantrum if he decides to air his frustrations and refuse. He _had_ been the one to warn Dimitri not to waste his father’s sacrifice after all.

“When do I leave?” he asks with a sigh, because there’s no getting around this. He’s going to have to comply for the good of the Kingdom.

“What I think you mean to say is, when do _we_ leave,” Sylvain lights up with a mischievous grin and Felix glowers.

“If I do this, I’m going alone,” Felix says because he’s not fabricating nor exaggerating when he says he’d rather travel alongside a Demonic Beast than _Sylvain_. “I’m not taking _you _with me.”

“Aw, Felix, that hurts,” Sylvain pouts. “Don’t you want to spend some quality time with your childhood sweetheart?”

“_No.”_

“You can’t go alone,” Byleth says with a shake of his head. He reaches beneath his desk and pulls out two more wooden figurines. One is obviously meant to represent Felix – there’s a frowning face drawn on it in black ink and it’s holding a sword. Byleth places it on the map, next to the Sylvain figure that’s on horseback and wearing an opposing smile. “It’s too dangerous, and we’re not exactly sure what to expect along the way. See—”

The figures stand where they are now – in Garreg Mach Monastery – and Byleth makes a point of pushing the two pieces of wood across the Kingdom of Faerghus, towards Itha, that ironically enough, sits between Gautier and Fraldarius territory.

“It’s quite the journey,” Byleth says, making a show of moving the wooden pieces in a meandering pattern across the terrain.

“Is that really necessary?” Felix asks, motioning towards the ridiculous display. It’s already bad enough that he has to leave, but to witness such immaturity making light of his situation, is beyond aggravating.

“Yes. Do not interrupt,” Dimitri says entirely serious, eye trained carefully on the map, watching every movement with eager interest.

“With it being just the two of you, you’ll be able to take a boat for most of it,” Byleth says and that gets Felix’s attention, because surely there’s an easier way than _sailing_ halfway across Faerghus. “It’ll take a long time to get there on foot or horse, probably too long, but there’s a river that cuts right through Charon and Fhirdiad, straight to Itha. It’s out of the way, so hopefully there won’t be too much trouble. I need both of you to get there in one piece and make it quick work.”

“Then send Dedue or Gilbert,” Felix tries one last protest, but the outcome doesn’t look great, not if the way Sylvain is grinning at him is anything to go by. His chances of avoiding this nonsense are narrowing and thinning and _crumbling_ by the second.

“I am needed by His Majesty’s side,” Dedue says, unfazed by Felix’s attempts at deflection and delegation.

“Gilbert is busy on another mission, and I need the rest of the Lions to remain here in order to clean out a group of bandits. It has to be you two.”

_This is annoying_, is all Felix can think, looking from his own wooden figure that’s frowning at him atop the table, to Byleth’s sympathetic yet pleading smile.

He sits back in his chair, utterly defeated, broiling with pent up frustration.

“Aw yeah, Felix. It’s you and me, just like old times!”

** ** **

It’s early morning. The sun has yet to rise, but Felix is already awake, waiting at the front gates for Sylvain to finally show up so he can get this whole thing over with. The sooner he gets back to his training, back to weapon maintenance and sparring, the better he’ll feel. Such an excursion just seems so utterly _pointless_. What difference is a dozen or so soldiers more? It’s not as though the Kingdom even _has_ the extra bodies to spare. It’ll all be for nothing in the end, and Felix _knows_ he’ll be of better use aiding the rest of the Lions with the bandit clean-up – hell, he could have handled that _himself._

Sylvain has insisted that he’s going to take care of securing provisions for their journey – something that not only leaves Felix with an foreboding sense of doubting dread, but also an uneasy feeling in his stomach and a flutter in his chest. He isn’t exactly elated at the prospect of spending upwards of six days, including the return, cramped in a tiny river boat, sharing food and idle conversation with _Sylvain_ of all people. The last thing he wants is to confront any of the thoughts and feelings that dwell deep within, to have them pulled to the surface and aired out with no means of escape or avoidance. But this war is a cruel and unforgiving mother as he’s been taught, time and time again.

Byleth has instructed that they keep their weaponry minimal – the last thing they want is to sink the boat with unnecessary cargo – but Felix has never once been underprepared, and so he’s wearing his warmest clothes, has his bow slung over one shoulder, spear at his back, and a sword sheathed reliably at his side. And, because he’s half expecting Sylvain to rock up with nothing but a knife in his pocket, he’s got an extra dagger concealed in a pocket around his thigh too.

When Sylvain finally _does_ show up, _late_, the sun has started rising, turning the clouds a muted orange, and Felix’s patience is already wearing dangerously thin.

“About time,” Felix says, heaving himself from his slouched lean against the wall. He watches Sylvain saunter over casually, the weak morning light making his skin look soft and his hair a shade darker. The corners of Felix’s mouth turn involuntarily downwards.

“Hey now,” Sylvain holds one hand up in defence – the other is carrying a large wooden case by a leather handle and Felix wonders what the _hell_ he’s packed for such a short journey. “Just making sure we’re completely prepared. Last thing I want to do is starve to death out on a boat in the middle of nowhere.”

“We’ll be in Faerghus,” Felix reminds him. “And it would be physically impossible to starve to death in such a short amount of time.”

“I can already tell this trip is going to be _so_ much fun,” Sylvain says, but he’s smiling wide and shuffling his weight from foot-to-foot like an excited child. Felix’s scowl deepens.

“It’s a waste of valuable time is what it is,” he says, and leaves Sylvain behind as he starts a brisk pace towards the outer stable where they’re supposed to meet Byleth and Dimitri for a final debriefing. Felix can hear Sylvain protesting behind him, and the rattle of whatever he’s packed inside the case hitting the wooden sides as he struggles to keep up.

When they arrive, Dimitri and Byleth are combing horses, engaged in a hushed conversation that Felix almost feels bad for interrupting. Almost.

“Ah, Felix! Sylvain! All ready to leave?” Byleth claps his gloved hands together and snaps away from his conversation. When the professor’s eyes give Felix a once over, he immediately frowns. “Didn’t I tell you to only bring minimal weaponry?”

“This is minimal weaponry.”

The professor opens his mouth to retort, but closes it again with a shake of his head. _Looks as though he’s finally learned not to bother questioning me,_ Felix thinks rather smugly.

“Here is the message,” Dimitri holds out a cylindrical tube of metal and before Felix can reach out for it, Sylvain’s already snatched it, shaking it near his ear as though he’ll be able to hear its contents.

“And here’s a map,” Byleth pulls a folded piece of parchment from his coat and this time, Felix gets it first. “It should take you around three days of sailing if you factor in rest breaks.” When Felix scoffs the professor sighs. “Felix, you can’t sleep aboard the boat. I don’t want you both to drown.”

“Who said anything about sleeping?” Felix mutters, because sleep will only make the journey longer, and he wants it over. _Yesterday_.

“_Felix,_” the professor warns, his startling green eyes narrowed in a warning.

“Fine.”

Byleth turns to Sylvain and puts a hand on his shoulder before sighing and saying, “Make sure he doesn’t kill himself by being ridiculous and stubborn.”

“Can’t make any promises, professor,” Sylvain laughs and uses the message tube to salute.

Felix thinks that if anyone is in danger of drowning or dying, it’s Sylvain – his edges are already fraying and he’s not about to put up with much in the way of irritation once they’re finally aboard the boat. Felix will push Sylvain overboard and continue the journey alone if he has to.

“The boat is about an hour’s walk from here. Preparations have been made and it’s waiting for you in the village at the Charon border,” Dimitri says, patting the nearby horse’s head. “Stay safe, both of you.”

_Shut up,_ Felix thinks, _I don’t need your worry _or_ your concern._

“Whatever,” is what he says aloud.

** ** **

They’re halfway to Charon when Felix realises he’s probably about to murder his own friend. He’s known Sylvain all of his life, knows that he can’t keep his mouth closed for more than five minutes at a time, and yet the information had seemed to slip his mind entirely when he’d caved so easily under the professor’s insistence yesterday. _Maybe I _should _have thrown that tantrum,_ he thinks belatedly, _I’d rather deal with those repercussions than _this.

Sylvain is _singing_. Not the nice soothing kind of lullaby that Felix _might_ have enjoyed as pleasant company along the never-ending fields of nothingness. No. It’s the grating kind, the irritating kind, the kind that makes Felix want to knock Sylvain unconscious with the pommel of his sword. He’s seriously contemplating it, he’s _dangerously_ close to leaving him for the beasts and bandits. He’s _seconds_ away.

“_58 vulneraries to save the soldier’s life, they best a beast and chug one down in times of woe and strife! Now let’s check the stock and count the lot, that’s 57 vulneraries remaining! 57 vulneraries to save the—”_

He’s not quite sure why he’s let the song carry on for so long, Sylvain had started at 99 vulneraries after all. Maybe it’s because he’s telling himself that he’s using such an annoyance to test his endurance and train his mental fortitude, or maybe, he just likes hearing Sylvain’s voice with its happy lilt. Maybe he enjoys the mirthful inflection that’s seldom to be found as commonly during such dire times.

Regardless of the answer, his tolerance reaches its limit, because, Felix is human after all and there’s only so much he can take.

“If you don’t _shut up,_ I’m _going_ to stab you,” he growls.

“Not fair,” Sylvain looks offended at having been cut off, and pouts. “How am I supposed to pass the time when you’re ignoring me?”

“In silence.”

Sylvain sighs, but follows Felix’s orders.

For a few brief seconds that is, because he starts humming the tune instead, as though he thinks that Felix isn’t able to hear him from barely a foot away.

Felix begins to unsheathe his sword.

“Alright, alright! I’ll stop. _Sheesh_. You’d probably go through with it too,” he mutters that last quip under his breath with an unsatisfied hand through his hair, but Felix has always been quite proud of his hearing capabilities.

Thankfully, he makes good on his promise to shut up, and they fall in to a silence that’s accompanied only by the sounds of their feet shuffling against the grass, the rumble of Sylvain’s wooden case, and the clatter of Felix’s weapons.

When Felix hazards a curious look at Sylvain a while later, impressed by how long he’s actually managed to stay quiet, he finds himself struck by how much older he seems, how he fills out his armour more thoroughly, and by how his face seems more mature with its firmer jawline and the stubble of a few days unshaved. Felix hasn’t spent a day away from Sylvain in a very long time, and yet he finds that this is the first time he’s ever really considered the effects of five years at war – Sylvain has aged well, aged _better,_ but he still looks just as tired as every other soldier at the monastery.

Felix can’t help but think he’s falling behind again somehow, even though he’s a step ahead to Charon.

“Like what you see?” Sylvain smirks, and Felix realises rather embarrassedly that he’s been staring at him for far longer than he’d intended.

“I can and _will_ kill you.”

“I know, I know.”

The village comes in to view not a twenty minutes’ walk later, and not much has changed since the last time they had passed through on their march to Fhirdiad. It’s still eerily quiet, still lacking the usual bustle of life. Each and every person they pass looks miserable and exhausted and though he hates to see such a lack of conviction, he cannot blame a single one of them for it. Not when Edelgard has shredded the fabric of history and reduced the remains to smouldering ash. Not when bandits take advantage of the turmoil and render the villagers fearful to close their eyes at night. If Felix could take them all out by himself, he would. But he not only has Dimitri,_ ironically_, and Byleth holding him back by the scruff of his neck, he also knows that getting recklessly killed will only cause inconvenience and he won’t make the same careless mistakes as those who have thrown their lives away before him. He likes to think himself wiser than that.

Felix knows that Sylvain feels the same anger too when he lets out a dejected sigh from his left – it holds the overwhelming sense of frustration that comes with not being able to save everyone at once. _Just focus on ending the war,_ his mind supplies rather uselessly, but it’s hard to imagine such an outcome when everything seems to move so slowly. Because the Kingdom may have its King back, but peace still seems so far away.

“We’re almost there,” Sylvain says quietly. Felix isn’t quite sure whether he’s talking about their intended destination or the course of the war, but he nods anyway.

They find the boat skipper after Sylvain charms directions out of a merchant, and the man seems to have been expecting them, because he hops out of his seat near the river dock and rushes over to greet them with a bow and an overzealous handshake. The skipper shows them to their boat – a wooden effort that’s just a little taller than Sylvain when erected vertically, and Felix stops short because _how are two grown men supposed to fit comfortably inside this thing and sail upstream for three days? _He’d barely be able to stretch his _own_ legs out comfortably, never mind accommodate Sylvain’s.

“You sure this is the right boat?” Sylvain asks, probably arriving at the same conclusive realisation that Felix just has.

“Yes,” the skipper nods solemnly, his wrinkled face forlorn and weary. “It’s the only boat we have left. Lost the bigger ones in a bandit raid last month, reduced to ash. Nothing to worry about though,” he reassures them after a moment of questionable silence, “it’s perfectly safe and capable of getting you where you need to go.”

There’s something protesting wildly within Felix’s chest that’s telling him this is going to result in an unmitigated disaster, but he ignores it. _Pointedly_. Because complaints seemed to have died on Sylvain’s tongue along with the skipper’s haphazard reassurance, and he won’t give Sylvain the satisfaction of seeing him be the only one perturbed by the whole situation. He can already _hear_ the relentless teasing.

“I hope you know how to row a boat,” Sylvain says once the skipper has retreated home and left them with nothing but some throwaway advice and well wishes. '_I don’t need to show Kingdom soldiers how to row',_ he’d laughed, '_I’ll leave you to it and see you in a week.'_

Sylvain kicks the boat and watches it bob in place under the awkward silence that’s descended upon them. Felix wants to set the boat alight and walk back to Garreg Mach.

“How hard can it be?” he scoffs.

** ** **

“I’m not sure you’re doing it right, Felix,” Sylvain says, and Felix wants to club him with the oar that he’s been wrestling with for the past forty minutes.

Because rowing a boat, it turns out, is _extremely_ difficult. Especially when aforementioned boat is trying to sink itself under the weight of two armour clad soldiers, multiple heavy weapons, and a wooden case full of only the _goddess_ knows what. It also helps none that Sylvain’s feet and legs are resting upon his own, crushing them awkwardly against the wooden side panels, rendering them uncomfortably numb.

“What do you even _have_ in that case?” Felix grits through his teeth, ignoring Sylvain’s lack of faith by continuing to try and pull the boat through the water with what feels like sheer willpower. Infuriatingly, the boat won’t stay on a straight course, and Felix isn’t exactly sure why, but he has a feeling it has something to do with the way Sylvain is leaning backwards, hands behind his head watching Felix struggle with a relaxed smirk. No, there’s no question, it’s _definitely_ Sylvain’s fault.

“Hey, don’t blame my resourcefulness,” he taps the case that sits between both of their legs. “You’re going to thank me for this later.”

Felix highly doubts that his and Sylvain’s ideas of usefulness coincide, but he hasn’t the care nor energy to debate such a discussion when he’s trying to prevent them from careening in to the riverbank.

“How did you even carry that thing here? It’s weighing us down.”

“It’s not _that_ heavy,” Sylvain says. “It’s just the necessities, you know, some water, some food, spare clothes, a tea set—”

“A _tea set?” _Felix hopes that his stare is causing Sylvain some kind of physical pain.

“In my defence,” he holds his hands up in mock surrender, “I thought the boat would be way bigger than this.” As if punctuating his point, Sylvain shuffles slightly and the boat sways precariously. A lick of water spills over the side and wets the fabric of Felix’s trouser leg. He glares harder.

“In what _world_, did you think we’d have time for _tea_ whilst rowing a boat to Itha?” 

“As my dear friend the professor once said: there’s always time for tea, Felix.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“And so are you, trying to row this whole thing by yourself. You won’t even let me help,” Sylvain frowns.

“The two of us trying to row the same boat would be hopeless,” Felix says, but the truth is, he’s sure he’ll get there faster if he rows the boat himself. That, and the fact that he desperately needs a distraction from Sylvain’s close proximity. Each and every pull of the oars helps him release his unresolved feelings, his complicated emotions, and pent up energy – he’s sending them in to the water to float upstream, where he won’t have to dwell on them for a second longer than necessary.

“Then let’s take turns, let me try.”

“No.”

“But you look tired, let me take over.”

“I’m fine, just sit back and shut up.”

Sylvain huffs and gives up, and Felix watches him discreetly through his lashes as he peers out over the boat and in to the water.

For a moment, Felix’s breathing stops short, because he thinks Sylvain might just find one of his secrets lurking beneath the dark surface, but when he starts singing that damned song about vulneraries again, his shoulders loosen and he calms once more. Because if Sylvain hasn’t found them out by now, Felix can live comfortably in the knowledge that, most likely, he never will.

“I’m going to give you two seconds to stop singing that damn song, or I’m throwing you over.”

Sylvain laughs, his eyes glowing amber under the low hanging sun, and then he says, “But you used to love when I sang to you as a child. Don’t you remember? There was that one lullaby I used to sing when you—”

“You know what, I changed my mind. Just keep singing. Anything is better than you _talking_.”

Felix adamantly blames the cold weather for the redness decorating the tips of his ears.

“Ha, you know, you’re actually kinda—” Sylvain begins with a laugh, but abruptly cuts himself off mid-sentence with a cough and aversion of his gaze. “I’ll stop singing,” he says instead, voice slightly quieter, less playful.

Felix narrows his eyes, scrutinising his friend, curious as to what he could have done that would cause such a sudden change of heart, but ultimately, Felix doesn’t push him for any kind of answer. He’s finally getting what he wants, after all: silence. And he’s not about to spoil it. Not when this whole conversation is making him want to shrivel up and die.

“Thank the Goddess,” he rolls his eyes and, as if on cue, the boat finally seems to comply with his will – the water has calmed to almost stillness and it’s floating nicely along, putting up minimal resistance. Felix’s arms finally catch a break from the strain, and he no longer has to expend as much energy with each roll of the oars. It’s as though someone has taken pity on the both of them, providing the change of pace they both sorely need.

The morning crawls by and the sun climbs higher in the sky, but it does nothing to increase temperatures. Faerghus is still just as cold and unforgiving as Felix remembers, and he’s suddenly very glad that he decided to wear his gloves, or his hands would be frozen around the wooden oars by now. Luckily, the constant movement of his arms is keeping his blood warm and lively, and it seems that all of the years spent in the warmer parts of central Fódlan have done nothing to dull Sylvain’s tolerance for cold weather either.

For a brief moment, memories of snow and frivolity burn quietly within the corners of Felix’s mind, desperate to bring down his meticulously placed walls. But Felix throws water over the flames before they have the chance to grow. Those memories serve no purpose, leave nothing but misery and darkness in their wake. He simply needs to focus on rowing this boat towards the future - there’s nothing to be gained from dwelling on the past after all, the dead can do nothing for him now, and the same goes for the memories long deceased too.

“Hungry?” Sylvain asks when he catches Felix eyeing his wooden case.

“That all depends on what you’ve packed.”

In lieu of a response, Sylvain just pops the box open, flicking up the clasps with a grin and Felix dreads the inevitable appearance of sickly sweet confectionery, but is pleasantly surprised when Sylvain unwraps savoury breads from white cloths.

“Be gentle with your criticism,” he says, handing one over to Felix, who lets down the oars to receive it. “Made them myself.”

“_You_,” Felix says incredulously after a bite, because he cannot deny that the bread is _delicious;_ it has a subtle hint of spice, the one that Felix loves, but has never bothered to learn the name of, “_m__ade_ these?”

“Is it _that_ hard to believe?” Sylvain asks.

“Yes,” he says, because Sylvain dedicates himself to a lot of different things, is infinitely talented in many different areas of expertise, but _cooking_ has never been one of them. Not that Felix has ever been aware of.

“Wow. Well, I guess I did have a little help from Dedue.”

_He’s nervous, _Felix notices, watching the way he runs a tentative hand through his own hair. It’s something he’s seen Sylvain do when he doesn’t quite know what to say which is an _extremely_ rare occurrence, to say the very least. Felix takes a deep breath, because, he decides, he’s not fond of nervous Sylvain - his condition is contagious.

“Then you’d better thank him,” he says, his complimentary tone sounding foreign in his own mouth. “It tastes amazing.”

Sylvain’s eyes widen almost comically, and Felix would bark out a laugh if it weren’t at his own expense.

“Goddess, strike me down! Was that a _compliment?_” Sylvain sounds incredulous, and he’s looking from side-to-side as though there’s someone else on the river that Felix has spoken to rather than him.

“Yes,” Felix snaps, heat unfurling within his cheeks against his own will, “and I can rescind it whenever I choose.”

“Hey now, don’t be stingy. I’ll take it. _Gladly_.”

Warmth, under the guise of confidence, has returned to Sylvain’s voice, and the equilibrium is restored. He’s smiling wide and bright again and Felix thinks that maybe, sacrificing a shred of his dignity for such a result is worth it.

_Maybe._


	2. The Biggest Fool in all of Fódlan.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain capsizes the boat.

“It’s getting late, Felix. We should bring the boat over and camp for the night.”

“No.”

“Didn’t you hear the professor? Or does your brain only ever retain information concerning fighting? We have to rest or we’ll drown.”

“No we won’t, because I’m not that weak willed.”

Sylvain makes a noise of exasperation and mutters something under his breath that sounds like _you’re impossible._ But Felix doesn’t care - he’s not about to pull the boat over and waste upwards of ten hours of precious travel time _sleeping._ It’s not even that late, Felix reasons internally, because it’s only just turned dark. And although he can feel the tiredness within his bones, making his movement sluggish and slow, he’s unwavering in his motivation to carry on rowing - he wants to reach the Galatea border before the first day is through.

“Fine, if you’re not going to pull over, then at least let me row for now.”

“No,” he says again, because it may be tiring, but he needs the distraction, needs to keep himself occupied and busy and moving because sitting still is unthinkable. Felix also knows that Sylvain is not as keen on making this mission as short a one as he is, and Sylvain rowing will probably account to the same amount of covered ground lost as sleeping.

“Is ‘_no_’ the only word you know how to say nowadays? You’ve been rowing nonstop since this morning!” Sylvain throws his hands in the air, and turns their dynamic on its head, levelling Felix with a hardened glare. “It’s my turn. I’m perfectly capable.”

“And I said I’m _perfectly_ fine,” Felix shoots back, tightening his grip on the oars. He doesn’t care if Sylvain falls asleep opposite him, he’d much rather take this as an opportunity to exceed the professor’s expectations and arrive back at the monastery in record time, to prove that such mundane tasks are beneath him. Hopefully it’ll prevent such an occurrence from happening in the near future, or perhaps it will even inspire more _useful_ missions.

Sylvain looks at him for a moment, his face works through annoyance, sets in to defeated neutrality, but then quickly shifts in to something more dangerous – something that looks not too dissimilar from Claude’s old scheming face.

Before Felix can try to predict what he’ll do next, or defend himself from the inevitable upcoming devastation, Sylvain is already reaching over the boat, catching Felix unaware. His hands fasten around one of the oars, and he pulls it towards himself, yanking Felix along with it. The boat rocks violently. Copious amounts of water spill over the edge and Felix curses loudly as he relinquishes one hand to try and steady himself.

It’s an awkward position that he finds himself in, legs tangled with Sylvain’s, body painfully stretched over the wooden case that sits between them with his arms warring over the oars mid-air. It helps none that he has so many weapons attached to his person – his spear knocks him in the back of the head and he winces.

“Stop it, you’re going to capsize us, you dolt!”

“I won’t if you just hand them over.” Sylvain tugs at the oars again, but Felix tightens his grip.

“And you call me the stubborn mule,” Felix says, pulling the oars back his way. This time, Sylvain follows and their faces end up inches apart, both set with scowls, adamantly unyielding.

“Why won’t you just let me help?”

“Because I don’t need your help.”

“Bullshit. You’re clearly tired, Felix,” Sylvain says and his voice changes as he says Felix’s name. It becomes somewhat softer - his grip loosens and his expression softens and it catches Felix off-guard.

“I’m _fine,_” he says for the umpteenth time.

Sylvain looks at him for a long time, and Felix starts to feel a little intimidated under his stare as it moves around his face, studying every facet and angle, looking for a sign, a tell that Felix is lying.

“You don’t have to do everything alone, you know Felix. We’re in this together, remember?” Sylvain’s voice drops again, and Felix swallows, averting his gaze, unable to bear the heat of his _closeness_.

It was such an insignificant promise at the time, a throwaway remark spoken by children unable to really grasp reality of the words being spoken. But it stood the test of time, remained a steady and unwavering monument to their friendship, untouched by age and unmarred by war. Sylvain likes to bring it up often, likes to use it to remind Felix that he’s there, and he’s not going anywhere. He wields it like a sword, striking Felix down with his sincerity, with his obliviousness to just how much that promise actually means to him.

Felix hates it. Hates the way Sylvain’s eyebrows unfurrow and his eyes bare in to his own, full of unreadable emotion. Hates it because he’s never been able to hide anything from Sylvain. He’s never been able to hide his emotions and hardships behind his walls as effectively as he does with everybody else at the monastery, because Sylvain knows him too well. Knows when he’s lying, when he’s uncomfortable, and when he’s just putting up a front to appear cold and hard in an effort to distance himself. And he hates that Sylvain seems to know the spell that melts the ice that’s surrounding him, knows just what to say to thaw him out.

_But he doesn’t know everything,_ Felix reminds himself, because he’ll never know, _can_ never know what Felix feels in his heart and chest - the key to that door is one that Felix will never relinquish.

But for a split second, Felix falters. His shoulders drop and he’s unable to control what emotions escape from within and present themselves upon his face. Whatever form they take, Felix quickly reprimands himself and bottles them back up. Hardening himself once more, he looks down at both of their hands that have reached a stalemate upon the oars.

“Let go, Felix,” Sylvain says, as though he thinks that asking Felix to give up on his rowing privileges for the eightieth time will do him any good.

“You first, Sylvain."

“Ok, that’s it.”

Before Felix can work out what _it _is, Sylvain yanks the oars backwards using all of his strength, but Felix’s grip still holds firm and he gets pulled on to Sylvain’s lap rather violently, chest slamming painfully against the wooden case. The last thing he sees before the boat capsizes is Sylvain’s face, and he has the audacity to look shocked by the turn of events, as though Felix’s prior warnings were nothing but quips and jokes.

Cold, _freezing_, Faerghus river water envelops Felix. It seeps in to every fibre of his being and he has to close his eyes when he’s submerged in to the never ending darkness, the shock of it rendering him immobile for a few seconds. Regrettably, he gets a mouthful of river water, and it turns his throat and lungs to ice when he accidentally swallows it.

Luckily for both of them, the river water isn’t _too_ deep and it doesn’t take Felix long to catch his bearings and right himself, planting his booted feet upon the rocky, river bottom. When his head emerges above water, the first thing he does is look for Sylvain, and not moments later, his head of orange hair bursts out of the depths and he gasps for air. Relief washes over Felix like a wave, crashes over him heavy and bruising, but it’s only for a short moment, because it’s soon replaced by overwhelming, burning, _rage._

“Oops,” Sylvain says as he pushes his soaked hair out of his face with a sheepish smile.

Felix blinks water out of his eyes and stares at Sylvain. Standing still in the still river, the water comes to his shoulders and he has to tilt his head back slightly to avoid getting water in his mouth. “_Oops?”_

“It was an accident, Felix. Come on, please don’t get mad.”

“Don’t get _mad_? _You capsized the boat_! We’re _soaked,_ and now we’re going to freeze to death!” It’s hard for his mouth to form words around his violent shivers, but his anger is carrying him through, the heat of his words turning the air to misty vapour as he hisses his complaints through gritted teeth.

“When you say it like that it makes it sound really bad,” Sylvain says, wading through the freezing black water towards the capsized boat. It’s floating nearby, and fortunately, the oars are still held in place, secure in the metal looped rowlock. The wooden case also bobs carefully above water, alongside Felix’s bow that he’d shed earlier that day to row faster. 

Felix doesn’t even bother to dignify such idiocy with a response. He just follows Sylvain, each forced step bringing forth a new wave of _cold_ that racks his body with shudders and shivers and new slews of curses. Of all the outcomes Felix had foreseen in his assessment of their situation, Sylvain capsizing the boat out of concern for Felix’s health, had _not_ been one of them. But then Sylvain is always surprising him in one way or another – his change of behaviour over the last few years being the most surprising of all.

Felix had thought Sylvain was up to something the first afternoon he’d forgone a dinner invitation to join Felix in a sparring session at the training grounds, had thought there was some kind of prank or joke occurring at his own expense. But when Sylvain had just trained seriously, and joined him every other day henceforth, Felix simply put it down to the pressure of war catching up to him and thought nothing more of it.

But now Sylvain’s baking Felix’s favourite savoury bread, concerning himself with Felix’s wellbeing, throwing himself in front of dangerous blades to keep Felix safe, and it’s jarring because they haven’t operated this closely since they were children. Sylvain hasn’t shown such blatant, obvious care for him in a long time, and Felix is finding it harder and harder to comprehend what’s happening, how to quell the hopeful fire in his chest every time he thinks of the implications that coincide with such actions, and the grief that follows the realisation that they reside on different wavelengths when it comes to those interpretations.

But ultimately, none of it matters. Not right now. Not when Felix needs to hurl every curse word known to Fódlan at Sylvain’s sickeningly attractive, moonlit face. 

“I’m going to k-kill you as soon as w-we get out of this water,” he manages to snap through his chattering teeth as they tug the boat and case towards the riverbank.

Sylvain laughs weakly, his shoulders shake with the action, and it soon blossoms in to uncontrollable laughter, loud and rambunctious, piercing the frigid air of quietness with startling clarity. Felix snaps his head around and narrows his eyes.

“What the h-hell is funny about this, Sylvain?”

Sylvain shakes his head, “Everything,” he says simply, trying to calm himself back down, laughs dying down until the only noises Felix can hear are the splashes of water as they trudge to safety and their combined gasping breath. “Nothing’s ever boring with you around, huh?”

Felix isn’t sure what that means, so he ignores it until he gets close enough to the riverbank to pull himself up and out. He’s dripping all over the muddied grass, shivering like a soaked rat and his clothes are drenched and heavy, making every movement hard to complete, but he turns and reaches out his arms to receive his bow and the wooden case from Sylvain, setting them down beside him.

It takes a while for them to hoist the boat up on to the bank - it’s heavier than it looks, and infinitely more awkward than they’d been expecting, what with the oars flapping about and the water making it slippery and impossible to grip correctly. In the end, Felix almost feels sorry for the amount of extra time Sylvain has to spend in the cold water, but then he promptly remembers that _he’s_ the reason for this whole mess, and swiftly casts all pity aside.

When Sylvain pulls himself out, he joins Felix on the ground, where he’s given up and called the mud his home and they lie in silence, staring at the star spotted sky as they try to catch their breath. The feeling catches him off-guard, but it would be nice, he thinks - if they weren’t freezing to death and soaked to the core - to spend time with Sylvain like this. Just the two of them doing something unrelated to war, or training. It’s odd, because Felix has never even considered that before, never even _contemplated_ wasting valuable time on such frivolous nonsense, but he feels it all the same. Likes the idea of Sylvain spending time with him not just out of obligation, but of an actual _want_ to be close to him.

It takes Felix longer to regulate his breathing than Sylvain, but eventually he gathers enough energy and control to lift up his fist, and throw it in to Sylvain’s arm. He yelps, and brings his own hand up to rub at the newly forming bruise, but doesn’t bother to protest.

“You are the biggest fool in all of Fódlan.”

“You’ve told me that a couple of times,” Sylvain mutters, and Felix doesn’t have to look at him to know the fool is smiling.

** ** **

“Felix,” Sylvain says, cracking open an eye from where he’s still lying on the ground and gathering his strength. Unlike him, Felix can’t bear the thought of just lying around any longer, not when all his mind keeps repeating over and over like a mantra is: ‘_R__each out and hold his hand, it’s probably warm’._

“_Felix,”_ he says again.

“What is it now, Sylvain?”

“What exactly are you doing?”

“Setting the boat right, what does it look like I’m doing?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. Looks an awful lot like you’re forcibly taking my esteemed title of the Biggest Fool in Fódlan, and keeping it for yourself.”

Felix scoffs and ignores him in favour of trying to push the boat on to its side to drain it of water. The task is arduous, especially when his hands feel as though they’re frozen and his legs buckle under each and every attempt. But, if they’re going to get back on the water any time soon, he’s going to have to keep trying, no matter how uncomfortable he feels.

After a short while of observing Felix’s struggle, Sylvain gets to his feet. He doesn’t say anything, just walks passed him and retrieves his wooden case, taking it over to the clearing of sparse grass that’s surrounded by throngs of trees. Time ticks by with minimal progress on Felix's end, but soon, various sounds travel from Sylvain’s area of the clearing in the form of small clatters and rustlings of grass. Felix is careful not to hazard a glance in his direction; he’s still too angry to care about what he does, and every shift of the wind reminds him so.

Felix eventually gets the boat to capsize once more, and water rushes out, pooling upon the mud at his feet, and then he turns his attention to his own clothing. Short of stripping naked, there’s nothing much he can do for himself – his coat, shirt, undershirt and trousers are all irrefutably _ruined._ His boots squelch and squeak with every step he takes, his hair hangs cold and limp around his face and everything clings to him, tight and suffocating. As he draws in a shuddering breath, Felix wants nothing more than to put on his nightclothes and throw himself in to the warmth of his own bed. But he can’t, he reminds himself, because he’s stuck out on a riverbank halfway across Faerghus with an idiot.

He unsheathes his sword – the case holds a decent amount of water and Felix sighs as he begins to unbuckle his belt to empty it. The water sloshes to the ground with a pathetic _splat _against the mud, speckling the bottom of his trousers brown. He’s about to do the same for the small dagger at his thigh, when hands wrap around his torso, and he’s being heaved up in to the air and tossed over Sylvain’s shoulder. His spear protrudes awkwardly from his back, and it almost knocks Sylvain unconscious when Felix protests loudly.

“What are you _doing?” _he shouts, flailing his limbs around. It’s too much for Sylvain, evidently, because he relinquishes his grip and drops Felix to the ground mere seconds after picking him up.

Felix turns on him the moment his feet touch the floor, and he pushes Sylvain against the nearest tree with a painful _thud._ There’s a rustling of leaves as the tree shakes, but it’s otherwise silent as Felix keeps Sylvain prisoner at its trunk, arm caging him at the neck.

“Taking decisive action,” Sylvain winces, and he doesn’t take his eyes away from Felix’s that are mere inches away from his own.

“In what? Securing your own death?”

“In getting you to slow down,” he says, and he actually sounds irritated. “Why are you trying to go so fast?”

“Because this is a waste of time,” Felix snaps and he suddenly can’t stop the torrent of words tumbling from his mouth. “We should be out in the field,_ fighting_, not traipsing across Faerghus to deliver useless messages.”

“It’s not useless if it’ll help us win the war, Felix.”

“You know what I mean, Sylvain. Don’t play dumb. You saw those people in Charon. We should be out there, _helping._”

“What good are you going to be to anyone if you run yourself in to the ground before you can even do that? Huh?” Sylvain jostles against Felix’s restraint. “You need to learn to take care of yourself too. Who are you trying to impress? _Trying to sail for three days without resting_,” he mutters with scathing amusement. “It’s not a bad thing to take things slow, to ask for help, you know?”

“I don’t need help.”

Sylvain slackens, “You know that I know when you’re lying.”

“That sounds like too many words,” Felix says.

“Stop deflecting. Why does everything always have to result in fighting?”

“Why do you care?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ I care, Felix?”

Something inside Felix cracks, something breaks and he hears it, clear as day as his breath catches and he watches Sylvain’s eyes travel from his own, down his nose, and settle on his lips. The air changes. He can smell the river water on Sylvain’s skin, and the faint remnants of savoury spice in his breath. Felix suddenly forgets that he’s halfway to freezing because Sylvain is so _close_ and looking at him like _that_ and—it’s _Felix _that’s keeping him there.

With a violent shake of his head, he pulls back and pushes Sylvain away as far as he can, along with all the overwhelming thoughts that he can’t even begin to unpack and process.

“Fine,” he says, voice shaking, heart hammering, “if it means that much to you, you can row.”

Sylvain blinks, and it takes a second for him to come back around and realise what Felix is saying. To realise that Felix, in a shocking turn of events, has given some ground. It’s rare, it’s unheard of, but deep down, Felix knows that Sylvain’s words hold some truth – he doesn’t want to end up like the boar, after all, rushing in to things with no regard for other’s safety. But he’s not about to start treating this as a leisurely excursion, far from it. But he is willing to allow some concessions.

“I appreciate that,” Sylvain says, “but nobody is rowing, at least not until the morning.”

“That’s ridiculous, don’t be stubborn.”

“Oh? Coming from Felix Stubborn Fraldarius himself?”

“It’s Hugo.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I beg forgiveness from thee, Felix _Hugo_ Stubborn-No-Fun-Oblivious Fraldarius.”

“You know what, I take it all back. I’m just going to row to Itha myself. Have fun walking home.”

“No you’re not,” Sylvain grabs Felix’s wrist as he turns towards the boat, and when he yanks him towards the clearing, Felix doesn’t actually protest. He actually follows rather willingly.

Very quickly, Felix realises, that in his determination to avoid Sylvain, he hadn’t even noticed that the other had been in the process of setting up a temporary camp. There’s an unlit fire pit of broken twigs and branches, the wretched tea set has been half set up upon the wooden case, and there’s more of Sylvain’s savoury bread waiting alongside some battered fruit.

“Told you you’d thank me for it later,” Sylvain says smugly. “I also have some spare shirts, so we can dry some of our clothes overnight. So we don’t, you know, _die_.”

While Sylvain lights the fire with a new spell he’s learned from Mercedes, Felix tears off his coat and shirts and changes in to the one that Sylvain provides. It’s large on him – a plain white shirt not unlike the ones they used to wear back at the academy, and as he buttons it, the sleeves fall passed his wrists and get annoyingly in the way. He lays out his clothes by the fire, and knows that come the morning, they’ll both _reek_ of smoke, but he definitely prefers that outcome, than succumbing to the elements. Ingrid would probably kill them both twice over if she found out they'd died to something as ridiculous as exposure in _their homeland._

When he’s done, Sylvain hands the fire poker over to Felix and tells him to tend the fire whilst he changes, and Felix takes extra care to look intently at the flames, refusing to supply his brain with any images of shirtless Sylvain lest it take them and run where he cannot follow to permanently dispose of them. Unfortunately for Felix, Sylvain seems intent on ruining his plans and his night, because he sits opposite him whilst he’s still doing up his buttons and it takes every ounce of Felix’s willpower not to stare at the war scarred skin on his chest that flickers in to view with every lick and dance of the flames.

Warmth and feeling finally returns to Felix’s hands and fingers after a few minutes spent hovering over the fire, but the same can’t be said for his legs and feet – Sylvain hadn’t brought spare trousers after all, and so they both still shiver under the relentless cold of the night. In an attempt to warm them further, Sylvain brews the tea, and Felix can’t even complain about the set’s presence, because Sylvain has also packed his favourite flavour – Almyran Pine Needle, and it smells _way_ too enticing to gripe about. Felix toasts the bread, because he hates feeling useless, and his unaddressed hunger is finally quenched after hours spent ignored.

“It’s not so bad, right?” Sylvain asks once they’ve eaten their rations for the night and are lying once again on the cold grassy ground with nothing but the clothes on their backs to shield them from what the night will bring.

“What?” Felix asks despite having an inclination as to what question might follow.

“Travelling with me.”

“No,” Felix says after a pause and he’s telling the truth because in this moment he feels content. But Sylvain smiles at him from his left and Felix has to stop it somehow because it’s stirring something within him, so he adds, “It’s worse.”

Sylvain’s smile dies and he groans. “_Felix_, you’re so mean.”

“Can you blame me? You _actually_ tried to kill us both. At least my threats are almost always in jest. Just wait until I tell the professor that you tried to murder me. Good luck trying to get out of weed duty for the next _year._”

“Listen, it was an accident,” he says, putting his hands behind his head as a makeshift pillow. “Mostly.”

“What do you mean, _mostly?_ Are you implying that it was partially intentional?”

“Well, I mean, it got you to listen to me in the end, right? So I guess I don’t regret almost drowning us.”

“Do you ever actually stop to consider the words that are about to leave your dumb mouth?”

“Not at all,” Sylvain says with a laugh, “but neither do you, so I think we cancel each other out or something.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Really? Because I’d say we’ve always worked pretty well, you and I. At least that’s how I feel.”

Felix frowns as he considers his friend, because that’s what he is, his oldest, and dearest friend. The person that’s remained by his side despite how hard Felix has tried to push him away, has saved him a countless number of times from demons not only raging upon the battlefield, but also from the ones warring within his mind.

“I guess,” he mumbles, because he can’t even begin to condense those thoughts and feelings in to actual words of gratitude. Maybe one day he’ll be able to express himself in such a way that will convey his feelings, let Sylvain know _just_ how much he actually means to him, _just _how much his continued presence at his side helps him create reasons to keep fighting and to keep on bettering himself.

But today is not that day, and so all he can manage to push through his teeth is a measly, “Goodnight, Sylvain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaa thank you for reading!! hope ur enjoying this as much as i enjoy writing it lmao  
also follow me on twitter and talk to me about fire emblem !!! @ berriesmangoes


	3. Eavesdropping will get you everywhere.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain hatches a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for your lovely comments and kudos!!!<3  
have some sylvain

Sylvain is walking to the training grounds for his sparring session with Felix when he overhears the professor talking to Dimitri about a mission in Itha. They’re sitting around a little table in the gardens, drinking tea, and Sylvain is both surprised and impressed that the professor has managed to get Dimitri calm enough to even _consider_ a tea party, let alone partake in one. That in itself is enough to get Sylvain to stop, to pique his interest.

“Hmm, I think we’re going to need more soldiers before we turn our attention to the Empire. We have a good number, but it’s always better to be safe than sorry,” Byleth says with a gloved finger against his lip, deep in thought, like always. “Do you know anyone in the Kingdom who might be willing to lend some extra hands?”

Sylvain stops behind one of the bushes and knows that he looks incredibly suspicious simply _standing still_ with his arms crossed over his chest in the middle of a pathway, especially to the many guards and soldiers that loiter around with their heavy, watchful stares. To avoid humiliation, he drops to the floor and undoes his boot laces, just so he can do them back up.

“I might have an uncle,” Dimitri says.

“You _might_ have an uncle?”

“I _have_ an uncle,” he corrects, with a laugh, “in Itha. He _might_ be willing to lend us some strength. However, I haven’t made contact with him in a very long time. I’m not sure how willing he will be to support the cause after everything that’s transpired.”

“Do you think it’s worth a try?” Byleth asks. “We could send some messengers.”

“It’s quite a dangerous journey. We’d have to send some of our top soldiers to ensure it gets there. Are you sure we can afford to do that?”

“It would take, what? A week at the most? And we won’t be making any moves for another two months. We can at least establish contact with him and start negotiations from there. Besides,” the professors says, and Sylvain knows he’s wearing one of those small, rare smiles of his, “it would be rude of him to refuse aid to the King of Faerghus.”

Dimitri’s voice drops, and it’s covered in a layer of vulnerable sincerity. “I shall never get used to being called that.”

Sylvain thinks that now is as good a time as any to quietly extricate himself from the situation, now that it’s turning serious. Because he’s gotten quite good at eavesdropping over the years, and knows _exactly_ when to hightail out of a hiding spot before he hears something he _definitely_ shouldn’t.

As always, Felix is already set up and doing sword drills by the time Sylvain gets to the training grounds. He’s not even entirely sure when or why he started coming to train with Felix – it’s a brutal experience. One that goes on long passed the sun has set, and leaves him tired beyond words when he finally lies down at night. But it’s become routine now, and it gives Sylvain an excuse to spend extra time with him without getting rejected, so he doesn’t mind that his arms don’t feel like his own when he wakes up the following morning.

“You’re going to trip and break your face if you fight with your laces like that,” Felix points to Sylvain’s feet with his sword and it’s then that he realises he’s laced his boots up wrong. Quite embarrassingly so.

“Oops, you’ve caught me. I was just _that_ excited to see you,” he winks and revels in the blush it elicits, because Felix can take on three soldiers at once and remain composed, but the moment Sylvain throws him a compliment, he suddenly loses the capacity to think correctly. And Sylvain’s not ashamed to admit that he’s used such a tactic to gain the upper hand in some of their closer bouts either, because Felix is merciless when they train, and sometimes Sylvain wants to leave the grounds _without_ a fresh new bruise to add to the collection.

“Shut up and get your sword,” Felix says, but what Sylvain hears is '_I was excited to see you too, Sylvain'._

“Swords again? Damn, Felix,” he says as he drops to retie his laces, _properly_ this time. “If you want to beat me up _that_ badly, you could just attack me on my way to breakfast in the morning, you know? That’s when I’m most vulnerable.”

“You shouldn’t reveal your weaknesses to the enemy, you fool.”

“Ah, but you’re not the enemy, Felix,” he looks up to send Felix a cheeky smile, but Felix quickly turns around with an exaggerated frown.

“For the next four hours _I am_,” he says. “But fine, if you’re just going to complain, grab your spear. I don’t care.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Sylvain says, standing upright with safely tied laces.

It’s always so much more fun when Felix decides to remain wielding his sword whilst Sylvain runs home to the safety of his spear. The bouts are fast and heated, and it’s nothing short of amazing to watch Felix still remain only a point or two behind despite having a significant disadvantage. They grin and laugh and taunt each other, and Felix always relishes the challenge of battling someone stronger than him, gaining the upper hand regardless of the odds. It’s addicting, Sylvain realises after a short while, because seeing Felix so animated and passionate, seeing him smiling and carefree – it’s like he’s in on a secret. It’s as though he’s witnessing a side of Felix that only _he_ is able to draw out. He wants to see it as often as he can, and if that means spending countless hours training and sparring, that’s just a sacrifice he’s going to have to make.

But today, it only takes a few bouts won on Sylvain’s end for Felix to start getting angry instead. Sylvain can tell he’s frustrated about _something_, but what exactly, he’s not quite sure. He notices it in the way that Felix makes marginal errors that a regular, unaffected Felix would scold someone else for making. Notices it in the way his smile is more of an angry grimace, and in the greater risks he takes to close the gap between Sylvain and the point of his spear.

“Break?” Sylvain asks after Felix’s eighth consecutive loss, because at this point, it’s no longer fun to hear him curse and demand _another._

Felix doesn’t say anything, just throws his sword to the ground and trudges over to one of the benches where he empties an entire flask of water. Sylvain watches him for a moment, the way his hair is slick with sweat and clinging to his forehead, the way his breathing is uneven as it tries to catch up with him and the way his eyebrows furrow in frustration. Sylvain’s mouth goes dry as he watches the pale skin of Felix’s throat bob with each gulp and he—

Clears his own throat. _Pointedly. Goddess _he needs to stop letting his mind _do_ that.

“Any particular reason for the angst?” Sylvain asks, taking the seat next to him. Not his wisest move, really, because up close he can see the beads of sweat rolling down Felix’s cheek and the blazing fire burning behind his eyes and it makes him want to reach out a hand to quell it.

“No,” Felix says, handing over the remnants of water left in his flask for Sylvain to drink.

“Sure? You usually kick my ass harder than this. Something has to be up.”

“Maybe you’re just kicking _my_ ass,” Felix mutters.

“Highly unlikely. You’d never let me do that. Even if I managed to killed you, you’d probably reanimate yourself to kick my ass from beyond the grave.”

Felix sighs, but it sounds more like a laugh, and he leans back, head hitting the stone wall with a dramatic thud. He stays silent for a while, probably contemplating whether or not he wants to bother airing his frustrations, but something gives and it makes Sylvain feel a little lighter to know that he’s trusted him with it. It’s not very often that Felix actually speaks his true mind nowadays, at least not without several scathing insults carefully concealing it.

“It’s nothing really. Just… if they don’t let me leave this Goddess-forsaken monastery to do something _useful_ soon, my muscles are probably going to seize up until I explode.”

“Pretty sure that’s some kind of blasphemy,” Sylvain says, but he gets it. Finally understands Felix’s gripe because he feels the same way. They’ve been cooped up inside for almost two weeks ‘_recovering their strength for the battle to come’_ and usually, Sylvain wouldn’t dare complain at the thought of so much free time, but that’s easy to say when you’re busy and occupied. If not for his sessions with Felix, he’d probably have irritated every living being within the monastery walls to the point of forced exile by now.

But for some unknown reason, Felix still seems to tolerate him. Despite how difficult he can be, despite what trouble he causes.

“It won’t be for much longer,” he tries to sound reassuring, but they both know that it’ll be a while yet before they take to the battlefield again, so the words fall short.

“Whatever,” he shrugs, “it’ll pass in a few days, and hitting you with a sword will help me get over it.”

“Oh, well I'm glad to be good for something. You actually going to get serious now?”

“Don’t test me, or I’ll swap the training sword for a real one.”

“Ooh, how exciting. Don’t get my hopes up, Felix.”

Their usual energy returns, Felix stays true to his word and gets serious, winning more bouts than he had done previously, as though he hadn’t been ‘_off_’ to start with. His movements are faster, his recklessness long since abandoned, and by the time night falls, the tables have turned and Sylvain is gasping for breath and utterly exhausted.

It’s nice though, the feeling of exhaustion – when he lies down at night, sleep comes easier than it used to. He doesn’t spend as much time thinking of the lives he’s taken on the battlefield, or of the mistakes he’s made that haunt his dreams, he doesn’t even think of his brother and his monstrous transformation – just lets sleep consume him because that’s all he has enough energy left within him to do.

But tonight, before he slips in to unconsciousness, he can’t stop thinking of the conversation he overheard in the garden earlier that day. Can’t stop drawing correlations to Felix and his bad mood during their sparring session, and pretty soon, not moments before he’s about to fall in to unconsciousness, he’s hatched and nurtured an idea, and expertly formulated a plan.

** ** **

“Well, we were planning on sending Ashe and Caspar, but if you really feel that strongly about it, I guess we can make some adjustments,” Byleth says, though he clearly doesn’t appear thrilled by Sylvain’s plea.

“Great,” Sylvain claps his hands together and can’t stop the smile that takes control of his face. “You’re the best, professor.”

“Yeah, I know. But, Sylvain,” Byleth leans back in his seat, the one behind his desk that’s full of empty sheets of paper and fishing flies, “have you asked Felix whether or not he’s OK with this? I can’t imagine he’s going to be ecstatic. He’s not exactly the type to value these sorts of missions.”

“Uh… no,” Sylvain has not brought the subject up with Felix, partly because he wants it to be a surprise, but mostly because he’s not sure how he’ll react and he doesn’t want Operation: Cure Felix’s Restlessness to fail before it’s even begun. “I think it’ll sound better coming from you.”

“Wow, way to throw me to the lions,” Byleth scoffs. “You know he’s probably going to hate it. Especially since it means I’ll be taking you both off the upcoming bandit clean-up team that I would very much like to keep you _on._”

Sylvain ponders it for a second, weighs the pros and cons carefully in each hand. Would Felix prefer to spend just one day outside of the monastery beating up bandits with his gauntlets? _Yes._ Would aforementioned exercise release his pent up frustration and absolve him of his itch to fight? _Most definitely._ Will Sylvain get to spend as much time with him as he would on a week-long excursion to Itha? _No._

“He’ll love it once we get on the road,” Sylvain reasons. “Besides, we both need to get out and do something, see the world before it changes again forever, all that good stuff. Plus, it’ll be good for our morale, you know? And I’ll buy him a cool sword on the way home.”

“Again, the bandit clean-up is in a week.”

“Too far away. Needs to be now.”

The professor sighs, and rubs his temples, but Sylvain is used to giving people headaches by now, so he just waits patiently for his answer. What he gets instead of one is an exasperated: “How did you even _find out_ about the messenger trip? Only a select few even know of the outlines. And by a select few, I mean Dimitri and myself. And, actually, now that I think about it, that probably means Dedue does too…” he trails off voice getting quieter as he starts muttering to himself.

“Because,” Sylvain cuts in, “I have ears and uncannily precise timing. But, y’know, you really ought to take such important strategy meetings some place other than the gardens, professor. Goddess knows who else could have been listening.”

“Impossible. Tea tastes better outside,” Byleth shakes his head.

“I’m not sure that’s—”

“Such a fact is irrefutable, Sylvain, and arguing it will only prove fruitless. Regardless, I’ll run all of this by Dimitri. If he agrees, I will let you know within a few days. But not a word until then, understood?”

“Roger that, professor. I’ll be counting on you to sell it to him.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the professor waves him off and Sylvain feels like he’s won something. Because, yeah, he’s going to also have to persuade the professor to convince Felix to actually _go_, but that just seems like a minor detail, one that will work itself out over time.

“Oh, and Sylvain,” the professor says as Sylvain turns to leave, wearing a smile as smug as a well-fed cat. “Next time you want an excuse just to be close to Felix, do try to come up with something a little less convoluted.”

“I’m going to pretend I don’t know what those words mean, professor.”

** ** **

So maybe his entire plan has capsized along with the boat, but Sylvain remains optimistic about the rest of their journey. There’s a long way to go, after all, and he feels like he’s getting through to Felix. Kind of.

Felix had taken less kindly to the idea of becoming messengers than Sylvain would ever have thought possible. He’d assumed Felix would be delighted to leave the monastery, no matter the excuse for doing so. But it seems as though he’s had a severe lapse in judgement if Felix’s outburst about the whole thing being _pointless_ is anything to go by. Or his suicidal mission to get the three day trip done in one.

Sylvain had gone to great lengths preparing for the journey too, asking Dedue for help in making Felix’s favourite bread and acquiring his favourite tea to help him relax and enjoy the trip. And it appeared as though it had been working, until the first five hours breezed by and Felix was still rowing as though his life depended on it.

Really, Sylvain thinks, he should have seen it coming. Felix said he’d wanted to do something _useful_ after all, and his idea of useful pertains more to the sword swinging kind of useful, rather than anything tactical. Sylvain’s going to have to make sure that Felix never finds out that he _could_ have been on a mission fighting bandits, rather than _rowing_, because Sylvain knows deep down, that if such information were ever to come to light, it would coincide with his final breath.

It’s cold when he wakes up. Not the kind of cold that’s unbearable, because he’s experienced plenty of winters back home that have left him chilled to the bone, but it’s enough to make him shiver when the breeze picks up and finds its way under his loose clothing. When he opens his eyes, the sun is barely rising; everything is muted and quiet, and save for the noises of Felix rustling through his case, it’s almost blissfully tranquil.

“Sylvain, get up.”

Almost.

“Isn’t it too early to be pissed off already?” Sylvain asks around a yawn. The fire is out, there’s just a trail of smoke rising steadily from the ashen remains and his eyes are begging to remain closed. Trust Felix to get them up at the ass crack of dawn. It had taken him _so_ long to get to sleep without a single home comfort – suffice it to say that grass does not make the best pillow – and now he’s already awake again, mercilessly being yelled at by Felix for Goddess knows what.

“Sylvain,” Felix says again and his rustling increases in volume. When his tea set clatters dangerously under Felix’s frantic search, Sylvain finally sits up.

“What? Hey, don’t break her, she’s expensive!”

“Where the _fuck_ is the message?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean ‘W_hat do you mean_’?”

“Felix, that’s… really not helping.”

“How can I say it any clearer, Sylvain? Where. Is. The. _Message_? The thing we’re _out_ _here _for. You had it last, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s in my pocket,” he says simply, reaching for his trouser pocket only to find that it’s hauntingly empty. His stomach drops, he probably loses five years of his life when all the dots connect and he realises that it’s _gone_ and he has not a single inclination as to _when_ it disappeared. _Does Seiros know no mercy?_

“Ok, so, please don’t freak out,” he cautions, watching Felix’s face turn redder and decidedly more angry-looking with each and every word that leaves his mouth. “But I don’t have it.”

Felix closes his eyes, looks peaceful for a moment as a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Sylvain _would_ spare the daring thought that he looks _incredibly _ handsome with the slight wave in his still-damp hair and the partial sunlight dancing over the smooth skin of his face, but the thought ends abruptly when Felix comes charging at him, shrouded in a newfound aura of murderous intent.

“Hey, now, Felix, it’s probably just somewhere nearby—”

Felix grabs him by his shirt collar and pulls him to his feet, and Sylvain tries extremely hard not to marvel at his strength because he’s recently discovered that he quite enjoys being manhandled. Especially by Felix. Up close, he smells of fire smoke, _or is that just the air? Probably just the air, Felix usually smells of pine needles and—_

“You’re literally unbelievable,” Felix kicks him in the leg with a heavy boot and Sylvain protests with a yelp.

“What was that for?” he shouts, even though he knows he thoroughly deserves it. He had one job after all: keep the message safe, and he’d let himself get so preoccupied with Felix that he hadn’t even noticed the blasted thing jumping out of his pocket. But there are no excuses to hide behind this time, because Felix has never bought a single one of them, and he knows that Sylvain is infinitely more competent than he lets on. That’s why it feels all the more frustrating that he’s messed up, because now he hasn’t done it on purpose, now he’s not acting just to shirk responsibility.

“There are too many reasons to choose from,” Felix spits. “Now take off your boots, you’re going swimming.”

“Aw Felix, please don’t make me go back in there.”

“Whine to someone who cares Sylvain, because if we don’t find that message, we’ll be sailing back to Garreg Mach to sing praises of your incompetence,” he says impatiently, hand still curled in Sylvain’s shirt. “And then I’ll kill you,” he adds.

“Oh, well, I’m glad I’ll get to experience the shame and humiliation of messing up the simplest mission of all time in front of the King of Faerghus _before_ you kill me. That’s awfully kind of you. Thanks Felix.”

“You’re welcome,” he says and pushes Sylvain backwards, letting go of his shirt in the process.

Sylvain rights himself, smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt, and stalks over to the riverbank for a gauging glance in to the water. It’s too murky to see the bottom, but it’s still and lifeless – if the message _had _fallen out during their brief splash, then odds are it’s still lurking amongst the rocks. Byleth had designed the case in mind of such an occurrence after all, waxing poetic about the properties of the durable and heavy, magic-and-fire-resistant metal that he’d crafted using Demonic Beast ore. Sylvain just wishes he’d taken the time to acquire a belt pouch, rather than relying on the depth of his pockets. Then he could have avoided having to sink back in to the icy depths.

“Wait, so what are you gonna do while I’m searching?” Sylvain turns on Felix and he’s sitting by the burned out campfire, chewing on an apple with a strangely calm demeanour for someone who had been almost explosive mere minutes earlier.

“I’m going to watch.”

“You’re not going to help me?”

“I’d honestly rather die. And, in case you forgot, it’s _your_ fault it’s missing.”

“Well, yeah, but we’re in this together?” He tries to pull out the promise card, in the hopes that it’ll sway Felix to feel sorry for him and halve the search time by helping, but the attempt proves futile.

Felix shakes his head, and his smile is downright menacing. “Until you find the message, I don’t know who you are.”

“That’s so unnecessarily petty of you.”

“Whatever, add it to my list of middle names, I don’t care,” he takes a large bite out of the apple as if to punctuate his unwavering stance on the issue and crosses one leg over the other, leaning back with a hand against the grass to get comfortable.

It doesn’t appear as though Felix is going to change his mind any time soon, so Sylvain groans and stares at the unforgiving depth of the water. His imagination doesn’t have to stretch far to envisage how _cold_ it is, he’s already had his fair share of the stuff seeping in to and freezing every orifice of his body. The thought of plunging back in to begin a futile search for the message canister seriously makes him doubt if this entire plan is even worth it, but when he glances back at the amused smile on Felix’s face, he thinks, _maybe._ Because if it takes Sylvain making a fool of himself, freezing his balls off in an icy cold river to bring the carefree smile back to Felix’s face, the one he used to smile when they were kids, then frostbite is just going to have to be a rather inconvenient side effect.

It’s weird, Sylvain thinks, that he can’t even pinpoint the exact moment that seeing Felix smile became a top priority. Because even when he was trying to lose himself in women, to regain some sense of control over himself and his crest, he was still searching for that head of dark hair not only to cuss Sylvain out and reprimand him, but to be the only living being that could see through the façade and bring him crashing back down to earth when he needed it most. Because despite Sylvain’s best efforts to convince everyone otherwise, Felix has never thought any less of him.

And now, everything seems to have intensified. He’s not sure if it’s a result of the war, or just a realisation of feelings that have always laid dormant, but he wants to be closer, to mean as much to Felix as Felix means to him, even if he _is_ running a fool’s errand.

Sylvain from five years ago would probably laugh. He’d honest-to-Goddess, uncontrollably, hysterically _cackle _if he found out that future Sylvain had dropped the skirt chasing to chase _Felix_ of all people, but alas. Here he is. About to jump in to a freezing cold river because he capsized their boat and lost an important piece of wartime correspondence because he was worried about Felix overworking himself. Such is the way of the world. Such is the way of Sylvain’s troubled existence.

He removes his shirt before he gets in the water – he wants to have something available to dry himself off when he eventually drags himself back out Goddess knows how many hours later. He swears audibly when his foot makes contact, and then he thinks rather sourly, that there’s no getting around this, he’s going to have to get it over sooner or later, and he throws himself in with an icy _splash._

His lungs cry and scream in his chest, and every inch of his skin feels as though it’s so cold that it’s burning. When he gets back above water, Sylvain can’t stop the violent shivers racking his body, and he tries to curse, but his lips don’t seem to want to cooperate enough to form words. He can hear Felix’s scathing laugh, and he raises a quivering hand from the water high enough to flip him off.

The river isn’t _too_ wide, so it doesn’t take Sylvain long to wade over to the other side of the riverbank, checking for the message as he goes with searching kicks of his feet. He hits his toes a few times on some jagged rocks, but he’s so utterly _freezing_ that he doesn’t even register the pain – his feet are passed the point of being numb.

“Hey, Sylvain!” Felix calls after a few widths of the river. “You’re not going to believe this!”

If Sylvain could feel _anything_, he’d probably feel his stomach drop at the uncharacteristic lilt to Felix’s voice, because, _no it can’t be._

“Turns out, the message was just lying here on the grass all along!”

Sylvain blinks. Once. Twice. Turns around from where his back is facing Felix and finds him doubled over laughing. _Laughing. Felix Hugo Fraldarius. Master of stoicism. Avid hater of fun. __Laughing._ At Sylvain. Because he’s just pulled a prank. The same Felix that once almost broke Caspar’s arm after being jokingly locked out of the training grounds for forty-five seconds.

_No._ He thinks. _It’s you that’s unbelievable._

“Y-you—” Sylvain can’t stop shivering long enough to even express his exasperation. A cat hasn’t just caught his tongue, it’s wrangling it, ripping it from his mouth so violently that he feels as though he’ll never speak again. He can’t tear his gaze away from Felix who’s laughing so wholeheartedly, so freely and heartily, that tears are glistening in the corners of his eyes. Sylvain can’t get his limbs to move, can’t do anything much but watch his friend fall back against the grass as his chest heaves happy barks of laughter.

The river may be colder than a Gautier winter, but Sylvain suddenly feels very _warm_.

“_Felix,_” he finally manages to say when Felix rights himself and tries unsuccessfully to reign his laughter in. Water trickles from Sylvain’s soaked hair in to his eyes, but he doesn’t move to wipe it away, he doesn’t want to miss a moment of tickled Felix.

Felix’s laughs bubble traitorously in his chest as he points at Sylvain. “I wish I could immortalise your face right now. Goddess, you’re so gullible. How have you even made it this far?”

Sylvain drags himself over to the other side of the riverbank, where he hauls himself out, uncovered skin dripping with rivulets of water that are quickly turning to ice in real time under the cold morning breeze. Felix promptly stops laughing and starts coughing instead.

The thing is, Sylvain can’t even get mad, because he’s already caused Felix enough trouble on this trip alone to last a lifetime, never mind the back log of other scenarios preceding it and all the scenarios to come. All he can manage to do is chuckle in utter disbelief, because when Sylvain had been envisioning outcomes for their messenger trip, reducing Felix to laugh induced tears had been but a distant dream.

He grabs his discarded shirt and trudges over to where Felix is sitting, decidedly more quiet than he had been a few seconds ago.

“I don’t know why you’re trying so hard to be a master swordsman,” Sylvain says as his shaking hands try to do up his shirt buttons. Felix will no longer look at him and his face is a startling shade of red, so Sylvain decides it’s time to turn this whole ordeal back in to his own favour. “You clearly have a talent for acting. How good of a singer are you? Maybe you should join an opera company. I’m sure I can convince Dorothea to get you an audition. You definitely have the face for it."

Felix chokes on nothing and throws his shoulder in to Sylvain’s so violently that Sylvain topples over.

“Shut up.”

Sylvain sits back up, dusting bits of mud and grass off of his shirt, and returns to the valiant battle against his tricky little buttons.

“Also, I thought you said you weren’t trying to kill me,” Sylvain says, eyes trained intently on his hands as they defy his brain’s plea for cooperation.

“Changed my mind,” Felix says, and he’s turned his head back around to actually look at Sylvain now, irritably watching his failed attempts at redressing. “You deserved it after last night’s stunt. You looked way too pleased with yourself for my—Goddess—here let me do it, you imbecile,” he snatches Sylvain’s frozen hands away from his shirt and starts to button it up himself, hands deftly ghosting over each button. Sylvain swallows thickly when one of Felix’s fingers brushes against his bare skin, setting it alight.

There’s a pause when Felix seems to catch on as to what he’s just done, how short he’s made the distance between them, how close their faces are. His eyes flicker downwards ever so subtly, but Sylvain catches it, because he’s watching him so intently that any such change in Felix’s expression would be impossible not to notice.

The moment is intense, and Sylvain doesn’t quite know what to do with it, doesn’t know whether he wants to push it further, to see what could transpire, what possibilities could come to light, if he’s overthinking this entire exchange, or if he should push Felix away and keep him at an arms distance for the benefit of both of them, because what they have is too nice, too important and special to ruin.

Luckily, Felix breaks first.

“There,” he says, backing off and clearing his throat before pulling his knees up to his chest and encircling his arms around them.

“Thanks,” Sylvain says weakly. He shivers again, and takes that as a sign that he needs to warm himself back up. He summons _fire_ and keeps it in his palms, using a trick that Mercedes taught him to push the warmth around his body, to fill his blood with magic and warm himself from the inside out. His trousers start to steam as they dry, and Felix watches him curiously.

“So, for how long exactly were you aware that the message was lying in the grass and not floating downstream?” Sylvain asks after a few painfully awkward beats of silence, because he doesn’t want this feeling to linger any longer. He doesn’t want to make Felix uncomfortable.

“I took the message from your pocket whilst you slept and planted it there myself."

“I had no idea you were capable of such evil,” Sylvain whispers incredulously, but follows it with a laugh. “We could make a tactician out of you yet.”

“I don’t have time for that nonsense,” he says.

“And yet you had the time to draw a multiple step plan in order to enact petty revenge upon me for my honest and well-intentioned mistake. You really are something special, Felix.”

“Such effort is reserved only for those who deserve it,” Felix huffs, and something flutters in Sylvain’s chest, even if he _is _purposefully misconstruing Felix’s words to suit his own needs. “And don’t you dare tell Ingrid, she’ll have me attending those insufferable tactical meetings again. What a load of utter garbage."

“It’s not that bad,” Sylvain says. “It’s like sparring, but with your brain.”

“Pointless,” Felix says. “You can’t knock someone down with a bunch of what-ifs and maybes.”

_Oh,_ Sylvain thinks, _but you do that to me every single day._

“You’d be surprised.”

“Would I? What good is a plan if someone acts unpredictably and throws it all in to the fire? The only thing I trust in the heat of battle is my sword.”

“And me to watch your back, right?” Sylvain asks with a hopeful smile.

Felix looks at him for a moment; his eyes hold something Sylvain can’t quite decipher. He looks as though he’s contemplating something, working through something complex in his mind, and Sylvain shifts uncomfortably, scared that he’s said something wrong, but then Felix softens and lowers his head. “And you to watch my back.”

The moments after he says it feel vulnerable, as though the breeze might blow them both away, because those words, spoken by Felix, hold such an earth-shattering amount of significance to Sylvain that he feels as though he’s singlehandedly brought everlasting peace to all of Fódlan.

“Enough chat, Felix says, suddenly getting to his feet as though the ground has burned him, “get up and get your clothes on. We have to get back on the water.”

Sylvain observes Felix's red cheeks and awkward, jerky movements and smiles inwardly.

“You remember your promise to let me row this time, right?”

“Whatever, just get your things so we can get moving. We’ve lost enough time already.”

“Aye, captain,” Sylvain salutes with a wink, and thinks that maybe the plan isn’t such a failure after all.


	4. Are You Angry?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The map. The map, Sylvain.

Felix _would_ feel at ease that they’re back on the water, only, he’s conceded and allowed Sylvain to row, so he can’t help but feel as though he should be doing _something_ other than staring uselessly at the trees and water beyond Sylvain’s head. His hands itch where they’re lying impatiently in his lap, his leg is bouncing involuntarily, and his mind can’t stop replaying their conversation on the riverbank like a cruel and tragic operatic performance.

His memories flash and dance behind his eyes, taunting him, making his mind whirr and overheat, because _what was that? _Felix can’t stop thinking about the look on Sylvain’s face, Sylvain’s softened voice, Sylvain’s cold skin beneath his fingers— it’s all too much. And Sylvain is just sitting in front of him, his legs weighing heavily on his own once more as he rows methodically, smiling, wide and cheerfully as though nothing has happened.

Felix doesn’t usually spare this much time dwelling, thinking, processing, but for some reason it’s all he can manage. His head hasn’t been this full of thought since… he can’t even remember. Not even his brother’s death had been this complicated. Everything has always been cut and dry, simple and determined, but now that Felix is faced with something grey, something uncertain and precariously fragile, he’s out of his element and he’s so unsure of what to do about it all, that he can do nothing but keep staring blankly ahead in the hopes that _something _might guide him towards the correct solution.

Because the crux of the matter is, Felix isn’t very adept at _feelings_ or expressing himself in a way that conveys his sincerity. It’s never been his forte, never been a skill that he’s bothered honing because he’s never cared what others feel, or how they interpret his words or what they think of him after he’s thrown his opinions on to the table, warranted or not. He’s been perfectly content with keeping his complicated feelings locked tightly in a box like one of his ceremonial swords, taking it out every now and then to polish off the dust, to check that it’s still there, that he still feels as strongly about it.

But now he’s here with Sylvain, walking a very thin line that’s shrouded in undecipherable tension and his blade isn’t sharp enough to cut through it, to clear the way and make the path an easier one to walk. Instead, the haze is thick, and his mind is muddled and he can’t work out why Sylvain keeps smiling at him, why he’s being so considerate or why he’s bothered staying so closely by his side all these years. Not a single moment of this journey has made sense, and the further north they sail, the more complicated and convoluted it all gets and Felix, more than anything, doesn’t want to mess it up for once.

“You OK there? You’ve been staring at—” Sylvain checks over his shoulder to see if there is, in fact, something interesting lurking behind him, before continuing, “some trees, for like half an hour.”

Felix snaps out of his trance and scowls.

“Oh, _there_ he is,” Sylvain laughs, “back to our regularly scheduled Felix. You had me worried for a moment. Looked as though you were _thinking._”

“I _was _thinking,” Felix says tersely, trying not to sound _too_ besieged by Sylvain’s sudden interest in the workings of his mind. Sometimes he’s scared that Sylvain has developed some kind of magical ability that allows him to delve inside Felix’s brain and read his thoughts. Because despite Sylvain’s best efforts to convince everyone else otherwise, Felix is acutely aware of Sylvain’s intelligence and dangerously acute perceptiveness.

“Not too hard, I hope. Wouldn’t want your head to explode. It would be a shame to lose a face as handsome as yours.”

Felix stutters. His brain feels as though it pauses entirely and all coherent thought suddenly vacates every crevice of his mind, leaving him standing alone in a vast field of nothingness as he tries to work through the implications of what Sylvain has just said.

“What was _that?” _he asks eventually, mouth cooperating long enough to create words.

“What?” Sylvain asks simply, rowing casually as though he’s done nothing more than compliment the weather.

“_That._”

“You’re going to have to be more specific, Felix. I’m currently doing multiple things. Rowing, for instance, enjoying your company, and—”

“_That_. The complimenting. Of me. _Again_. Why are you doing that?”

“There’s another word for it, you know. I wouldn’t so much as call it complimenting you as I would call it fli—”

“Shut up. It doesn’t matter what it’s called. Why are you doing it all of a sudden?”

“Wow, you’re denser than I ever gave you credit for, Felix. Guess I have nothing to worry about, huh?”

Felix reaches forward and hits Sylvain’s leg, “Don’t mock me.”

“It’s not mocking. Just casual observation. Does it bother you?”

“You mocking me? Of course it does, you dolt. Is there a single person in Fódlan that _enjoys_ being mocked?”

“Oh I know a few,” Sylvain smiles with a suggestive raise of his eyebrows and Felix scoffs indignantly, because _of course_ Sylvain can find a way to make such an inquiry _indecent._ “But that’s not what I was referring to. The compliments,” he lowers his gaze, “do they bother you?”

Felix stares at him – Sylvain’s face looks earnest, and Felix would even venture that he’s slightly nervous. The compliments don’t _bother_ him, not in the way that Sylvain _thinks._ It’s that Felix isn’t sure whether he _means_ them or not that irks him the most. It’s that he’s not sure whether Sylvain’s just being his usual flirtatious self to rile Felix up in an attempt to make the trip more interesting, or whether he’s being genuine in his praises.

It must be his inner masochist that makes him say, albeit reluctantly, “No. They don’t bother me.”

“Well, good,” Sylvain huffs as the current picks up a slight bit and makes rowing an altogether more arduous task. “And, just so you know, if you were to_ ‘_compliment_’_ _me_, I wouldn’t mind all that much either.”

“You’re going to need to use more enticing bait than what you’ve been putting out to lure any such compliments from me,” Felix huffs with heat in his cheeks.

Sylvain’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth to say something, but in a shocking turn of events, he closes it again and presses his lips together in a firm line.

_Interesting, _Felix thinks. _If I’d known it was _that_ easy to shut him up, I would have said something similar much sooner._

Some sort of divine intervention saves Felix from having to face the repercussions of what he’s just said, however, because the river starts to get a little bumpier, and when Felix turns his head to see what’s behind him, the river starts to get wider, and it’s about to open out in to a relatively small lake.

Their boat quietens again once they’ve sailed over the mouth. Felix relinquishes his grip on the sides of the boat as the water becomes so still it’s as though they’re floating. The water is a little clearer too, and Felix can see schools of fish darting around beneath the surface, causing ripples of splashing disturbance. Sylvain stops rowing for a moment and he stares off in to the distance, brown eyes narrowing as he concentrates on something.

“Uh, Felix,” he says, pointing behind him, “you still got that map?”

When Felix raises a questioning eyebrow as to _why_ they would need a map on a straight river ride to Itha, Sylvain grimaces and begins to manoeuvre the oars in an attempt to turn the boat. He rotates them, and Felix groans when he realises their dilemma. In the distance, the lake peters off in to two separate, yet identical-looking river lanes, and one obviously leads the _wrong_ way.

Felix rustles around inside his coat pocket and pulls out the map that he’d stuffed there yesterday morning, but his blood turns cold in his veins when he realises that the paper is still soggy and damp from the capsizing.

“Oh no,” Sylvain says quietly, watching the map fall apart in wet shreds as Felix tries to unfold it. Even if he were to piece together the separated parts, the ink has run and spread and rendered the whole map illegible.

Looking from the ruined paper in his hands, to the impossible decision on the horizon, Felix thinks that maybe, this mission is just _destined_ to fail.

** ** **

“Don’t worry, Felix,” Sylvain says, slinging an arm around Felix’s shoulders. Felix immediately pushes his arm off and increases his pace through the forest.

Their boat is resting in the lake, tied to the decrepit boat dock that protrudes outwards in to the water with some mouldy rope and a prayer that nobody steals it. Sylvain assumes that they’ve just breached Galatea territory, and promptly suggests that they find a nearby town to inquire for another map. The risk of them taking the wrong river forwards, and ending up in the Tailtean Plains rather than Itha, is too great for them even entertain.

The air is blue, heavy with an unspoken tension – Sylvain obviously knows that it’s _his_ fault the map is ruined, that they’ve had to put the journey on hold _once again,_ to detour hours out of their way. But he’s making an effort to dispel it, to try and distract Felix from spiralling in to a blameful mood, and Felix is trying to prevent such an outcome too. He’s breathing through the threatening bouts of anger that rise in his chest, because it won’t do them a shred of good for him to have another outburst. The cards have been dealt, and there’s nothing to be done about it – it’s not as though anything Felix has ever done has gone according to plan anyway. Why had he even assumed this would be any different?

“I’m not worried,” he says.

“But you’re angry, right?”

“No. I’m not.”

“You should be. I messed it all up again, didn’t I?” Sylvain asks this with a smile, but Felix knows better. Knows that behind it, Sylvain is blaming himself more than Felix ever could. More than wanting to be angry, irritated, _annoyed_, Felix feels a sense of calm wash over him, followed by determination not to let Sylvain think less of himself; he’s already endured that enough for one lifetime, and in the grand scheme of things, this is but a drop in the ocean of things that _could_ have gone wrong.

“The map probably wouldn’t have told us much anyway,” Felix waves him off and nudges Sylvain’s shoulder that’s dropped under an imaginary weight. “From what I can remember, it wasn’t detailed enough. We would have needed to make this journey regardless.”

“You’re just saying that,” Sylvain laughs, mirthless and devoid of any actual happiness. Felix used to hear it back at the academy, when Sylvain was courting girls, when Sylvain was talking about Miklan. Felix _hates_ it.

“When have I ever made shit up to make people feel better?” Felix says curtly, and adjusts the spear on his back with fierce tension. “A fact is a fact, don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Sylvain pauses, his eyebrows rise slightly, and then his lips quirk amusedly. “Woah, when’d you get so cool and heroic sounding, Felix? Have you started reading those knight stories again?”

“‘Cool’ is a word for children, Sylvain. And no, I don’t read that rubbish. Now shut up about the whole thing and walk faster.”

Sylvain is quiet for a while as they cut through the forest in the hopes of emerging in to a town; there wouldn’t be a dock nearby for no reason, after all. He’s wearing a hint of his usual smile again, the good one, and Felix feels slightly more at ease. The forest is sparse, the trees are mostly bare having still not recovered from the harsh winter, and like everything across the entirety of Faerghus it feels sterile and desolate. Not a single creature stirs, and where others might call it tranquil, or peaceful, Felix calls it _unsettling _and he tightens his hand around the grip of his sword.

“Good thing they sent us, right?” Sylvain laughs and his voice cuts through the cold silence like a dagger. “Could you imagine Annette or Ashe walking through this forest? They’d probably run home.”

Felix grunts – Sylvain’s not wrong. The forest emits a strange vibe, evokes a feeling of unease in the pit of Felix’s stomach, as though something is constantly on the verge of going wrong. _It probably will,_ Felix internally rolls his eyes.

“Please don’t scold me for ‘wasting valuable training time’, but I’ve been reading some horror novels recently and this is exactly like this one I read that—”

There’s a noise. A rustling that wasn’t made by either of their own feet and Felix bristles, throwing a hand in to Sylvain’s chest to simultaneously stop him from both walking and talking. Sylvain splutters, and almost drops his wooden case at the sudden halting of his step. Before he can protest aloud, Felix hushes him. “Someone’s here.”

“Yeah, _us_,” Sylvain scoffs, but keeps his voice a whisper. “Why’d you have to be all creepy about it? I was _just_ talking about horror novels and then you pull _this_. There are easier and more preferable ways to kill me, you know, all you have to do is ask. I can provide you with a list—”

“Shut _up _for a damn second,” Felix snaps and the forest falls quiet again. Sylvain tilts his head, angling it to try and hear what Felix is warning him about, but nothing sounds out of the ordinary. Frustratingly, the shuffling sound of leaves and twigs under feet has disappeared as though Felix had imagined it to begin with. He’d definitely heard _something,_ and now whatever it is has hidden itself, aware that Felix has clocked on to its presence.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“That’s because you scared it off with your incessant _blathering._”

“What _I’m_ hearing, is that I probably just saved us from some kind of bloodthirsty baby forest demon. You’re welcome, Felix. It’s always a pleasure saving you,” he sing-songs and sets the pace again and Felix reluctantly joins him. Though he can’t shake the feeling that he’s missed something important, that something is observing him, that they’re being followed.

When he says as much, Sylvain ensures him that it’s just his military training that’s making him warier than usual – the noises were probably just some poor woodland creature, a terrified little squirrel or something of the like that Felix has frightened with his scowl. Such reassurance rounds out Felix’s fraying edges, but it doesn’t loosen his grip he holds on his sword.

** ** **

The town they find is just beyond the edge of the forest, along a weather beaten path and down a considerably steep hill that Felix is going to lament having to climb on their way back to the boat. The sun is high in the sky by now, and Felix guesses that it’s nearing midday, which, to Felix, only means that they’ve lost a considerable amount of travel time.

Galatea seems to be fairing a slight margin better than Charon, if the happiness of its residents is anything to go by. They’re actually walking the streets, carrying on with their daily life wearing weary, hopeful smiles and a distinct buzz of chatter fills the air the closer they get to the town’s centre. Felix isn’t sure whether or not it’s to do with the return of the King, or the lingering sense of a war drawing to its conclusion, but his step feels lighter on the cobbled streets of Galatea, and he forgets all about the strange noises in the forest.

Sylvain seems to have forgotten about his troubles too, he’s practically skipping as they walk down a street of market stalls, and he cranes his neck to get a good look at all the wares that the vendors are advertising with loud and enticing offers.

“Oh, look at this,” Sylvain darts forwards to a table that’s covered in a deep blue cloth and covered in gleaming daggers of all shapes and sizes. Felix perks up, always intrigued by weaponry. They peruse them for a while, Felix likes the way some of them are set with precious stones – they’re infinitely more interesting than the dagger of plain steel that rests against his leg. He picks one up, the one that has three carefully cut gems of fiery orange set in to the hilt, and holds it out before him, observing the sharpness of the blade and the thickness of the metal. It’s a very well made piece.

“Do you want me to get it for you?” Sylvain asks, watching Felix intently. He taps his wooden case, “I have some money.”

Felix scoffs, “Who are you? Dimitri?”

“I’m definitely not that helpless,” Sylvain laughs and levels Felix with a look. “I’d win your affections with something _way_ more attractive and romantic than a dagger.”

“A shame,” he says with an emboldened smirk, returning the dagger carefully to its place on the table. “Such a strategy might have worked out pretty well in your favour.”

Sylvain pales and his mouth hangs open for a second, and Felix finds it extremely interesting and down right_ amusing_ that Sylvain cannot take his own flirtations being thrown back his way. Felix turns on his heel with his face burning, and starts back down the market street when Sylvain calls after him, “Hey, Felix, wait! I take it back! Do you really want it? I’ll get it! Don’t think I won’t!”

“Forget it, Sylvain,” Felix calls and waits for Sylvain to catch up. “I’ll make the professor buy me one as compensation.”

“Compensation for what?”

“Compensation for the years of my life I’ve lost on this ridiculous trip," he grumbles.

“Aw, come on, is it _really_ that bad? I mean, we’re out of the monastery at least, right? Or would you rather be bashing your head against the training ground wall?”

Felix supposes he’s right. Although hearing Byleth talk of the bandit clean-up had invoked such jealousy within him that he’d honestly considered abandoning Sylvain the night before they’d left in order to pursue them himself. Perhaps it’s a good thing that so many deviances have occurred along the way; it certainly would have been a significantly more unbearable journey if they’d been restricted to the confines of the boat. Felix imagines it wouldn’t be all that different than being trapped in the monastery.

He doesn’t reply.

“Oh, and since you can’t get any more pissed off than you probably already are, I might as well just come clean and say it would probably fall to me to compensate you anyway,” Sylvain says and rubs at the back of his head with a sheepish smile.

When Felix stops in the middle of the market road and asks him what that means, Sylvain swallows before continuing, “I was the one that insisted the professor send _us_, instead of Ashe and Caspar,” he says. “And before you stab me or something, I stand by my decision wholeheartedly. You needed—_need_ a break.”

Felix stares at Sylvain, watches him squirm under the scrutiny and intensity of his gaze and then he carries on walking. Because _of course_ it was Sylvain’s idea. It doesn’t even feel like that much of a revelation to find out, he’d already been blaming Sylvain _before_ he’d found out he was the mastermind anyway. It’s not as though it makes a shred of difference and he’s altogether long passed caring. If anything, he’s starting to actually appreciate being outside and walking around the Kingdom without death following at his heels – seeing how Galatea looks happier, with life filling its lungs once more; it makes him think it’s worth the effort.

“Can I at least choose how I die?” Sylvain says as he follows behind Felix, his wooden case rattling heavily at his side. “I kinda have an ongoing bet with Claude that I’ll die in a cooler way than he does, so if you could help me with that, that would be great. Although, being killed by _you_ would probably make him chuckle anyway, so I don’t suppose you’d have to do anything flashy—”

Felix massages the bridge of his nose as he walks, listening to the utter _nonsense_ that Sylvain spews behind him and wishing that he’d been childhood friends with someone like Ashe instead. Someone quieter and considerably less annoying.

“Before I even _begin_ to unpack any of the shit you’ve just said,” Felix says, “know, first and foremost, that I don’t care.”

“_Felix,_ please be reasonable. You’re merciful enough to honour a dying man’s wishes, right? You’ve got to care at least a little bit about me?”

Felix has picked up a lot of words during his lifetime, knows a dozen ways to call someone an idiot, over a hundred words relating to sword maintenance and training, and yet he can’t seem to pick one that perfectly describes how much he cares about Sylvain. Nothing seems to quite hold the correct emotion for him. He’s heard people call similar things ‘love’ and yet not even that seems strong enough to cage what Felix feels in his heart and mind.

“Not about _that_, you _idiot._ I’m not going to kill you. What would be the point in our promise otherwise?” he mutters that last bit in the hopes it might fly by unnoticed, but Sylvain hears it and stops looking as though he might protest and instead wears a look that Felix can’t quite decipher. “I’m not planning on dying alongside you just because you’re being ridiculously presumptuous and stupid. I’m talking about it being your idea. _I don’t care_. It doesn’t matter.”

Sylvain makes a noise that sounds like ‘_O__h’_, except it’s slightly more strangled and sounds as though it’s coming from another person’s mouth entirely.

“So you’re not even the tiniest bit mad? I thought you’d be significantly angrier.”

Felix stops to turn around and grab Sylvain by the lapels of his armoured coat. Luckily the street isn’t _too_ condensed with people, because they stop so abruptly that had there been anyone following them, they’d probably have collided. Felix wants to scream at him that there’s absolutely nothing he could do to warrant the same kind of ire from him that he dishes out to the other poor, unsuspecting souls at the monastery, but he doesn’t think it’ll do much good.

“How many times do I have to repeat myself? Nothing you’re doing is making me angry. Except maybe the capsizing - that river was fucking _cold_ and my shirt is still damp. And, yeah, _maybe_ the singing made me want to throttle you, but, you almost always make me want to throttle you in one way or another so I’m _used_ to it by now, and--” he sighs and it takes a lot out of him to even consider his next words but he forces them out anyway, “you’re right. I guess. I probably would have lost my mind in that monastery if I’d stayed a day longer. Even if I don’t give a shit about pointless tactics and correspondence, it’s _something,_ right?”

It _is_ something, Felix reassures himself as his words tumble out unchecked. It may not be the something he was longing for, but he’ll be fighting soon enough, and once this trip is over he’ll be a step closer to ending the war once and for all, and hopefully, Sylvain will still be at his side, wearing the stupid grin that fills Felix with unexplained warmth and he might even feel grateful for it.

Sylvain nods weakly and Felix continues, jamming a finger in to Sylvain’s chest, “And stop talking about dying all the time, because I’m not letting you go anywhere without me and I don’t plan on dying any time soon.”

He waits for Sylvain to nod again in understanding before letting go of his coat and straightening the lapels with a cough to clear his throat of any words left lodged there. Sylvain’s face looks contemplative and slightly flushed and Felix suddenly feels very self-conscious; he’s never cared what anyone’s thought of his words and feelings, but was that maybe a bit _too much?_ Was he speaking too transparently? Would Sylvain see through his curses and insults and find his feelings underneath and question them? Felix isn’t sure he’s ready to confront such a possibility – half-hearted joke-flirtation is one thing, Felix’s raw emotions are another beast entirely.

“That also doesn’t mean I’m going to start treating this trip like a fucked-up honeymoon either. I still want to get back to training as soon as possible, so no more boat capsizing.”

Sylvain laughs at that, albeit quite shakily and runs his hand through his hair as though the weight of a thousand soldiers has been lifted from his shoulders. _Am I really that terrifying?_ Felix thinks for a moment, and then ultimately decides _yes,_ because that’s the kind of image he’s been cultivating for the past seven or so years. It makes sense that his moods would affect Sylvain's perception of him too.

“And I changed my mind,” Felix says and redirects the conversation before Sylvain can find words, “go and buy me the dagger. I want it.”

Sylvain’s cautiousness quickly transforms into amusement when he realises that there’s nothing to worry for anymore, and he grins as he says, “Your wish is my command, Master Fraldarius.”

** ** **

The dagger feels nice against his leg. Felix has replaced the old one, slotted it in to a holster at his boot, and instead enjoys the heftier weight of the new one with every step he takes. Once they’re back on the boat, Felix is going to study it in further detail, learn it entirely, and spot the differences of a forger from Galatea against one from Fraldarius. There’s just the small issue of not being able to find a single map in this entire town that’s stopping him from doing so.

“Hi there,” Sylvain sidles up to the counter of a tavern they’ve just walked in to. When Felix inquired as to _why_ Sylvain had thought a tavern of all places would provide such information when all they care about is how drunk their patrons are, all he had gotten in response was a cheeky yet mysterious, ‘_T__averns hold all the best secrets, Felix’_.

The one they’re standing in is unusually full for it being so early in the day; there are already countless people either passed out or singing in a jarring mix of moods and the lights are dim, making it seem darker than it actually is - if Felix didn’t already know that it was currently midday outside, he’d have fallen in to believing that evening had already descended. The place also reeks of rotting beer and bodily fluids, but Felix has dealt with worse smells – Demonic Beasts don’t exactly smell of roses – and so he doesn’t even scrunch up his nose, just looks around while Sylvain ‘works his magic’.

“I was wondering if you knew of any ways to get hold of a Galatean map,” he says using his thickest and most appealing voice. Felix turns away as the bartender raises a large, hairy eyebrow.

“What do you need a map for?”

“Shouldn’t that be obvious?” Felix cuts in curtly. This is the third person they’ve tried that’s refused them so far. Why are these people so reluctant to hand over their territory’s topography?

“Don’t mind my friend,” Sylvain pats Felix on the shoulder and sends him a look that screams, _let me deal with this. _ “We’re travelling, touring the Kingdom, and we’ve run in to some trouble on the river. Don’t want to end up looping back around on ourselves now do we?”

“How do I know you’re not Empire spies?” the man raises an eyebrow and Sylvain stares at him blankly. “Can’t go handing that information around to just _anyone_. We’ve been having some suspicious people around these parts.”

Felix can’t even argue with him, because it’s altogether a very _sensible_ reason for not giving such information away so readily, but it does make the whole situation more frustrating, because they don’t exactly hold identification papers to prove themselves otherwise. Sylvain seems to realise this, and decides that enough is enough, they’re going to need to convince him somehow.

“You seem like a trustworthy guy,” Sylvain lowers his voice and leans over the counter, “between you and me, we’re not actually travellers. We’re on a very important mission for the King of Faerghus.”

“Yeah, and I’m a renowned diva at Mittlefrank,” the bartender guffaws. “Pull the other one. You think I’m just going to believe any ol’ crap you decide to pull out of your ass? This is a tavern, not a nobleman’s dinner party. I have drunkards telling me they’ve seen the Goddess on a daily basis.”

Felix slams his hand on the bar counter and everybody within a few feet of them startles and hushes their conversations. Felix waits a moment for the fuss to die down and whispers viciously, “I've had enough. Want proof? Here.”

He pulls his sword from its sheath, and Sylvain tries valiantly to stop him, obviously under the impression that Felix is resorting to violence. “Get off,” he spits, wrestling his arm out of Sylvain’s vice-like grip. “I’m not going to kill anyone.”

With another room-quietening slam, Felix puts his sword down on to the counter and points at the engraving on the hilt, the one that reads _Shield of Faerghus._

“This was my father’s sword,” Felix snarls, “Rodrigue Fraldarius. _Shield of Faerghus._ He died fighting for the Kingdom, fighting for King Dimitri, and if we don’t complete our mission, he’ll have died for _nothing _and that’ll be on _your_ head. Give us a map, or I’ll consider you as villainous as the Empire itself.”

The bartender balks, his heavy eyebrows rising upon his face and unveiling pale blue eyes that spark with recognition and regret. He looks down at the sword, and then up at Felix and his demeanour shifts entirely, but Felix doesn’t feel smug, nor victorious. He's never enjoyed using Rodrigue to get his way, prefers to carve his own path rather than to rely on anything pertaining to the man he’d called father.

Sylvain gives him a look that says he understands, a look that also says he is thankful and that he’s sorry, and pats Felix’s hand for him to re-sheath his sword. Felix’s grip on the hilt is white and angry, but under Sylvain’s reassurance, it loses some of its fury and regains some of its colour.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner, lad?” the bartender asks, tripping over himself to right his mistake. “I don’t have one here, we don’t really keep them around, but there’s an outpost near the edge of town that carries some, for the guards, you know? I’m sure once they know of your mission, they’ll be happy to provide you with some assistance. You look like you’ve been travelling a while, do you want some drinks? On the house.”

Felix grunts and storms out of the tavern, not wanting to waste a second longer under the man’s awed stare – not when he’s trying so hard to find Rodrigue among Felix’s features. The sun burns his eyes a little when he slams the door behind himself, and Felix is glad to be breathing air that doesn’t smell of vomit and desperation. It doesn’t take long for Sylvain to follow him outside, and he falls in to step a few paces behind him. Felix knows he’s trying to come up with something consoling to say, some form of an obligatory ‘are you OK?’ that he doesn’t want to hear nor answer, so to save him the trouble, Felix just spits, “I’m fine.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Sylvain says, and Felix is grateful that Sylvain knows him well enough to believe him. Because when the old man had died, people he’d never even learned the names of had offered their condolences, something that had pissed him off beyond words. Sylvain acts in no such way, he knows how Felix feels about the whole situation, and prefers to offer a hand that wields a training sword rather than words laced with baseless pity.

They forget the whole ordeal as they set a brisk pace for the outpost. It doesn’t take them long to find it either, a shabby brick building that’s seen better days houses a grand total of four guards, all of which begin the usual routine of accusatory questions the moment they set foot over the threshold and state their business. That is until one of them recognises Sylvain as a Gautier, and more importantly as the man who once tried to court his sister. For a moment, Felix thinks he’s about to deny them their map under a petty act of revenge, but they get handed a large piece of folded paper and when Felix checks it, it is indeed, a more detailed and thorough map of Galatea. It even goes as far as to mark Conand and Blaiddyd territory too, so they’ll find it a struggle to lose themselves from here on out. He can already see the river, has found the lake at which their boat hopefully still floats upon, and he traces his finger along the river that correctly leads the way towards Itha. _Finally_.

“Who knew that one day your insatiable skirt chasing would come in handy,” Felix laughs drily, and Sylvain joins him breathlessly as they climb the hill back towards the forest.

Felix can’t wait to rest his feet after all of this pointless, aimless walking; the thought of the river has never been more appealing, and with a stomach full of pastries that Sylvain had insisted on buying for the journey back, he’s quite looking forward to the rest.

“I knew it was all for a reason,” Sylvain quips.

Felix loses the capacity to banter with Sylvain once they near the top of the hill – it’s so steep that it requires an enormous amount of leg strength to climb. Although, Sylvain still seems to have enough energy left within him to complain about the weight of his wooden case making the whole ordeal harder for him, however.

When they break in to the forest, it finally feels as though Felix is getting somewhere – he’s almost back to the boat, with a clear, concise and _dry_ map of the way forward; he’s got a new dagger that sits prettily in his pocket; his relationship with Sylvain somehow seems even sturdier and _deeper_ than before; and he’s got something that resembles a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Race you back,” Sylvain proclaims suddenly and bolts off in to the sparse trees with his case rattling and protesting loudly as he goes. Felix calls after him, says that’s the most ridiculous and childish thing Sylvain has ever suggested, but starts running after him regardless.

Felix hears it too late.

The sound of a branch snapping from above him.

And before he can draw is sword, before he can even turn to face his assailant, the world turns black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg thank you all so much for reading and for your lovely comments and kudos !!!  
as always, if you want to talk to me about fire emblem or video games, come join me on twitter @ berriesmangoes


	5. Bandit Cleanup.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bro, you're injured, bro, you're bleeding. let me help you, bro.

Sylvain doesn’t know exactly what happened. One moment, he had been running, revelling in Felix’s shouts of disgust as he raced ahead to where he knew the boat was lying in waiting, and the next, he was unconscious. Now, as he’s coming back around to an uncomfortable headache, he realises that he’s sitting on the forest floor. The wet ground is seeping in to his clothing and his butt is uncomfortably numb but that’s nothing compared to the awkward angle of his arms that are forcibly tied behind his back, pulling at his shoulders with every laboured breath he takes. Felix is behind him, also tied up, and their hands are looped together with shoddy knot ties, but his distinct lack of an outraged struggle lets Sylvain know that he’s still unconscious, so he doesn’t bother to cause a scene. Yet.

So they’ve been captured, by… someone. Sylvain had honestly not seen it coming. The Kingdom was supposed to be relatively safe from the Empire after the removal of Cornelia, and yet, Sylvain can see an unmistakable flash of red upon the armour of one of his captors that fills him with rage and annoyance and puts him right back on the battlefield, surrounded on all sides by death and destruction with startling clarity.

There are three of them, but their backs are turned, and they’re discussing something in tones so quiet and hushed, that Sylvain can’t even deploy his eavesdropping skills to ascertain the kind of danger they’re in. He keeps his head low and his eyes half-closed so he can resume an unconscious act at the drop of a hat should he need to, and uses the time that their backs are turned to glance around.

They’ve been taken to some kind of makeshift camp. There are large wooden boxes and carts to pull them scattered around the clearing – something that immediately makes Sylvain think of bandits - and he can see Felix’s weaponry and his own wooden case thrown lazily in to a pile next to a dwindling fire. The sky is now orange, meaning they’ve been out for at least a few hours, but at the very least they still seem to be in the same area, which means once they get free, they won’t have far to travel back to the lake. Sylvain just hopes that whoever their captors are haven’t found the message canister that’s settled inside Sylvain’s case, because that would be extremely bad. For everyone.

One of the captors stalks away from the group and Sylvain quickly closes his eyes and tries to even out his breathing to faux sleep, but it evidently doesn’t work, because his head gets yanked up by his hair and someone’s shouting at him.

“Hey, I know you’re awake!”

“Well, if I wasn’t before, I would be now,” Sylvain grumbles, wincing at the way his hair feels like hundreds of needles against his scalp the harder they pull at the strands. When he opens his eyes, he notices that the assailant is wearing a mask; a blank face-like shape of painted red wood, with holes cut for the eyes. He looks at it curiously, and the masked person lets go of his hair, but before he can say anything, Felix stirs behind him and immediately begins thrashing against the restraints.

“What the fuck is going on?” he shouts, accidentally throwing an elbow in to Sylvain’s back.

“Ah--shit, ouch, Felix, calm down. We’ve been captured, that’s all.”

Felix immediately stops struggling and goes still. “Oh? Bandits?” he asks.

“Looks like it.”

Felix starts laughing, and Sylvain wishes he could see the smile on his face, because Felix probably feels as though it’s his birthday as of right now. “_Fantastic_. Just what I needed.”

“Hey, stop talking!” the ‘bandit’ says, kicking Sylvain in the leg. _Why am I always the one getting kicked,_ he gripes internally, scowling at the figure that’s hovering over him with an equal amount of disdain in their eyes. “You’re both captives. Keep your filthy mouths shut or you’ll lose ‘em. Now listen to me--”

“Where have you put my sword?” Felix asks, ignoring the threats and cutting them off so calmly that it makes Sylvain laugh and the bandit sputter.

“It’s over by the fire,” Sylvain says, “along with all of our other stuff.”

“I said _shut up_,” the bandit kicks Sylvain again and he topples ungracefully, dragging Felix down with him by their tied hands. They lie there on the frozen ground for a moment and Sylvain realises pretty quickly that without perfectly synchronised teamwork, they’re not going to be able to right themselves without the use of their hands.

“Woops, you OK Felix? Didn’t mean to take you down with me.”

“Are you two idiots or something? Stop fucking talking!”

“I’m fine,” Felix says and tries to heave himself back up with no success. “But there’s a damn rock sticking in my arm.”

“You’ll have my dagger sticking in your arm if you don’t shut—”

“Aw, shit, let me help,” Sylvain kicks his feet and tries to move them both a little, but all Felix does is hiss in pain.

“Not like that! You’re making it worse.”

“Not much else I can do like this, Felix. I’m not a miracle worker.”

“What the fuck is going _on_ over here?” The remaining two bandits have noticed the commotion and stomped their way over to where Sylvain and Felix are lying helplessly on the ground. They’re also wearing masks, and basic soldier armour with red accents.

“You Empire soldiers?” Sylvain asks, “or just bandits with an unfortunately tasteless choice in colour scheme?”

A red masks stares blankly at him, and Sylvain wonders for a moment what kind of emotion lies beneath it – anger apparently, because the newcomer shoves their boot in to Sylvain’s jaw and he lets out a pained grunt. Felix thrashes behind him airing slews of curses and Sylvain unfurls his tied up hand to encompass Felix’s with a reassuring squeeze. The feeling of Felix’s bare hand against his own fills Sylvain with warmth for a moment; it almost helps him forget the throbbing pain blossoming across his face – almost.

“Being a wise-ass isn’t going to help you anymore,” the tallest of the bunch spits, crossing their arms over their chest. “You’re our prisoners now, and a couple of nobles with crests like yours will fetch a pretty penny.”

Sylvain’s mood darkens instantly and he stiffens. This time, it’s Felix who squeezes _his_ hand.

“But I think your heads will fetch a higher price. You shouldn’t go announcing yourselves around town so blatantly you know. A Gautier _and_ a Fraldarius, and the only remaining heirs at that - we’re about to make a small fortune. There are significant prices on your heads over in Enbarr. A lot of people are looking for revenge.”

“Your voice is really annoying,” Felix says once the bandit has finished trying to sound like a villain from a knight’s tale. “But chin up, you’ll be able to afford some kind of mysterious voice changer once you kill us, right? They like those over in the Empire.”

Sylvain doesn’t have to be looking at him to know Felix is wearing a very specific smile; the smile that accompanies him on the battlefield when he knows he’s outperforming his opponents. The smile that tells him his training has paid off.

Five years ago, Sylvain would probably have begun to fear for his life around now, and told Felix to shut up before he actually gets them both killed. As it stands, Sylvain is pretty confident in not only his hand-to-hand combat skills after countless sparring sessions with Felix, but he’s pretty confident in his magical prowess too. It seems to come naturally to him – he hasn’t even really put that many hours in to honing it, but he’s read a few books of spells and learned a few tricks from Mercedes, and by association Annette, to a point where he feels comfortable enough to use it quickly and effectively.

Sylvain also knows that Felix has been doing the same. He’ll never forget their first magic spar – the training grounds had never looked so demolished after a session. The scorch marks from Sylvain’s _bolganone _and Felix’s _thoron_ still mar the stone floor to this day.

The bandits should, by all means, be livid, but it’s hard to tell what with the mask etched in permanent neutrality. The eyes that peer through the holes look pissed off though, so Sylvain revels in that small victory. Felix’s habit of rubbing people the wrong way always comes in handy when riling up enemies – Sylvain never gets bored of it.

“In case you’ve forgotten,” one of the bandits moves around to Felix’s side of the forest and pulls out the dagger that Sylvain had bought earlier that day to point at his throat, “you’re the ones tied up. We can kill you whenever we choose, no posters say you’re needed _alive._”

“Just let me know when you’re ready, Felix,” Sylvain says, and channels some fire in to his palms that rest against Felix’s – a signal letting him know of the plan. Felix relaxes as much as he can with his own dagger precariously close to his neck.

“I exited the womb in fighting stance and haven’t left it since,” Felix says simply and Sylvain grimaces.

“Did you have to say it like that?”

“What’s wrong with—?”

“You idiots really are _craving_ death, aren’t you?” The one that’s on Felix’s side hits him across the face to shut him up and Sylvain says a silent prayer for the poor, unsuspecting bandit; they’re about to have the wrath of Nemesis thrust upon them in the form of a very tired, very angry, Fraldarius. “But don’t worry, we’re pretty good at giving people what they deserve.”

“Obviously not,” Sylvain drawls, “because Felix and I deserve a _rest,_ if anything, and yet here we are. Listening to your horse shit instead.”

“I’m definitely going to kill you first,” one of the bandits spits venomously, moving to unsheathe a sword from his side.

Something happens behind Sylvain’s back, something that sounds an awful lot like Felix has head-butted someone.

“_Now_ Sylvain!”

Immediately, Sylvain concentrates his _fire_ on to the ropes that entangle their wrists together and Felix hisses in pain as the rope catches fire, but Sylvain quickly puts it out as soon as it’s charred it enough to break it apart. The bandit that Felix has knocked unconscious falls forward, and Felix pulls his hands free to push himself to his feet and grab his dagger from the slackened grip of his assailant. Sylvain does the same, jumping to his feet, grateful to finally stretch out the cramped muscles.

Without delay, one of the bandits throws a punch that Sylvain narrowly dodges in time and then retracts his fist to pull out his sword. Sylvain is helplessly without weapon, and the pile of them are too far away for him to make a break for, so he takes a deep breath and concentrates on staying one step ahead of his assailant.

Felix is already engaged in combat with the remaining conscious bandit, and Sylvain deftly jumps out of reach of the blade that chases him to the beat of Felix’s dagger clanging against a metal sword. The bandit’s don’t seem terribly adept at fighting – they’re sloppy and reckless and lack the rigorous training regime of the Officers Academy, so it’s not a difficult fight. The only problem is, Sylvain hasn’t had time to shake out his aching limbs and he’s rusty; he’s struggling to catch his breath enough to even summon a single flame under the onslaught of swipes.

When the bandit’s sword comes down upon his clothed arm and slices right through the thick fabric, Sylvain hisses out a curse and jumps backwards. Sylvain can feel blood wetting his clothing and he clicks his tongue in annoyance – it’s going to be a pain to get this cleaned, for once blood has set it takes an awfully long time to remove it entirely and Sylvain’s never been fond of wearing his own stale blood upon the battlefield. It unsettles him greatly.

“Not so talkative now, are you? Pathetic nobles, you’d think with all that money you could at least learn how to fight.”

“Oh, boy are you about to feel embarrassed for saying that.”

The bandit’s greatest mistake had been to taunt Sylvain, because in those few seconds of respite as the bandit revels in the superficial injury they’ve inflicted, Sylvain works up enough magic to hurl their way. The ball of fire hits them square in the chest and they stagger backwards, gasping for breath. Sylvain doesn’t let up – he quickly darts forwards and clamps a burning hand around the bandit’s wrist until the sword is dropped and he has the upper hand. Quickly, Sylvain retrieves the sword and throws the pommel of it in to the red mask with as much force as he can muster.

The bandit falls to the ground awkwardly and Sylvain spins around to find Felix, still locked in a furious bout of blades. It’s astonishing, how Felix manages to wield a small dagger as though it’s a sword as long as the bandit’s. He catches each and every downward swing and throws them in different directions, controlling the flow of the fight with calculated steps forward, and he forces the bandit to retreat until they stumble on an upturned rock and clatter to the ground. Felix looks so focussed the entire time that Sylvain can’t help but become slightly mesmerised by the way his form moves so fluidly, the way his hair blows slightly against the wind, and the way his eyes dance under the evening sun.

“Wait!” Sylvain shouts before Felix makes to knock the final bandit unconscious. Felix snaps his head around to question Sylvain's interruption, and he runs to meet them before Felix does something rash. “We need to find out what they _know_,” he emphasises the word and makes a gesture towards their belongings. Felix catches on and turns his dagger back around so the pointed end rests against the bandit’s exposed throat.

“Have you been through our stuff?” Sylvain asks, hoping that they haven't search thoroughly enough to find the message canister rolled up in white cloth amongst the remaining loaves of his savoury bread, because he really doesn't want to kill anyone today. The bandit says nothing, but Sylvain can see their blue eyes darting back and forth between the two of them, and then off to the side where Sylvain knows their stuff resides.

“Don’t know why you care about it so much, it’s all worthless. Just some mouldy fruit, dirty shirts and an ugly tea set," the bandit says. Sylvain tries not to be offended on his tea set’s behalf.

“It’s not ugly,” Sylvain snaps. “Right, Felix?”

Felix grimaces and Sylvain has never felt more betrayed in his entire life.

“It’s the colour of piss,” Felix says apologetically.

“I’m going to pretend that our friendship remains heartily intact, and that you haven’t just said that to me,” Sylvain says, and looks back to the bandit who’s using their squabble to edge further away from them. Felix jams a boot in to their stomach and flattens them against the ground when he notices.

“You saw nothing else?” Felix asks.

“What was I supposed to have seen? Are you two hiding some kind of—”

There’s a wooden crack that pierces the quiet air as Felix knocks the bandit unconscious, seemingly content that they know nothing of importance.

“We could have found out more,” Sylvain says staring at the heap of red and silver armour.

“Honestly, I do not care,” Felix says and then breaks in to a grin. “Goddess that was fun.”

“Your idea of fun is sincerely worrying, Felix,” Sylvain says, but finds that Felix’s lifted mood is contagious and smiles alongside him.

In fact, Felix’s mood is so elevated, that he even throws an arm around Sylvain’s shoulder as he makes to walk over to their discarded weaponry, and tugs him slightly against his side in an almost-hug. Sylvain forgets to breathe for a moment, and then he breathes all too suddenly in the form of a pained gasp when he realises that his arm is still currently bleeding.

“Oh, shit. You’re hurt?” Felix pulls his hand away so fast it’s as though Sylvain has burned him.

“Just a scratch,” Sylvain says

“That’s a lot of blood for a scratch,” Felix says, peering at him as though he’s trying to gauge if Sylvain is telling the truth of not.

“Call it a slice then.”

Felix makes a noise of annoyance and drags Sylvain over to the other side of the clearing by the hand attached to his uninjured arm. Felix’s palm is still warm from its prolonged grip on a dagger handle and Sylvain enjoys how well it seems to fit against his own.

“Sit,” he orders, pointing to one of the large wooden boxes, “and take off your coat.”

“Ooh, Felix. Haven’t you heard the saying that you should take someone out first before you undress them?”

“Sure, I’ll take you out first,” Felix says and Sylvain’s heart leaps in his chest, but then Felix undoes the button that keeps his dagger secure and reaches for it.

“I was joking!” Sylvain quickly backpedals. “Felix, it was a joke!”

Felix huffs and redoes the button, “Do you _want_ me to let you bleed to death?”

Sylvain wants to say something smart like, ‘_I’m not going to bleed to death, it’s a superficial cut that I can fix with my own _heal_ spell’_. But saying something like that will only make Felix stop attending to him, and Sylvain definitely does _not_ want Felix to stop attending to him.

“No,” Sylvain says quietly, and shrugs off his coat while Felix stalks over to their wooden case to retrieve one of Sylvain’s white shirts and a flask of water. The cut on his arm isn’t as bad as Felix is making it out to be – really, the sword had barely grazed him and the thing doesn’t even needed stitches. But Felix seems to be hell-bent on nursing him, and Sylvain is definitely not complaining, because a concerned Felix is a rare Felix, and a Felix that Sylvain greatly enjoys, especially when the concern is directed _his_ way.

Sylvain watches intently as Felix uses his dagger to hack two shreds of fabric from the bottom of Sylvain’s shirt – his face is scrunched in concentration and if he didn’t look so endearing, Sylvain might have joked about his clumsiness, but as the cards lie, Sylvain finds himself helplessly enamoured by Felix, as usual.

Felix douses one of the mutilated shreds of fabric in water and moves to start clearing away the blood that’s spread itself all over the upper part of Sylvain’s arm. He works quickly and quietly; his touches are feather light for someone so brash and heavy handed, and Sylvain takes the time in which he is distracted to study the face that’s mere inches away from his own.

Brows drawn together, Felix’s face looks hardy and resolute. Sylvain’s gaze follows the lines of concern that start above the bridge of his nose, to the downturned corners of his lips, where it rests. His jaw is firmer than Sylvain ever remembers it being, his forehead has a red mark on it from where it made contact with the bandit's mask, and there’s a smudge of mud on his cheek from where he’d hit the ground earlier that Sylvain wants to reach out and clear away with his thumb.

Felix has always been handsome, in that mysterious and unattainable kind of way. Sylvain made the initial discovery on their first day at the academy; had been surprised by how changed Felix was since seeing him last, how his hair had grown longer and how his frame seemed slightly bulkier and sturdier. Sylvain put such a sudden interest in his friend down to simple shock and intrigue upon noticing the change and had thought nothing more of it. But each and every time he passed Felix in the training hall, or glanced at him across the battlefield, he’d found himself fascinated time and time again. Startlingly, he’d found himself as struck as when he’d seen a beautiful girl, and to his dismay, the feeling was not nearly as fleeting.

Such a feeling has only intensified over the years – it never fades, the flame never diminishes. If anything it burns stronger and brighter with each passing day, and Sylvain does not make any such attempt to forcibly blow it out like he used to with the countless women at the academy. It lingers, an everlasting presence at the back of his mind, and Sylvain willingly nurtures it. He encourages his feelings and watches them grow at an alarming rate, because if there’s one thing he’s certain of, it’s that loving Felix will never be a mistake, and that’s because Felix has kept him around and promised to die at his side in spite of his many flaws.

And Felix is, well, _Felix - _Sylvain has learned as much on this trip. Has learned that he could profess his undying love for Felix in a thousand different ways, and would get nothing more than a punch to the arm in response to each and every one, because for some reason, Felix doesn’t seem to be able to conceive that Sylvain could be telling the truth. And Sylvain hasn’t the heart to correct him just yet, lest he destroy the foundations of the relationship that they’ve built and cultivated over so many years.

“Like what you see?” Felix regurgitates Sylvain’s own line back at him in the form of an embarrassed mumble and Sylvain near jumps up from where he’s seated awkwardly upon a wooden crate from the shock of it all.

“You definitely need to stop spending so much time with me,” Sylvain says with a hand over his heart in an attempt to stop it from thundering beneath his ribs. “I’m rubbing off on you and it’s not good for my health.”

“Like you’re any better for mine,” Felix scoffs and throws the bloodied strip of fabric off to the side. Sylvain doesn’t dare to push him any further – his face is redder than he’s ever seen it and Felix does not enjoy being teased.

Gently, Felix lifts Sylvain’s arm to wrap the second piece of shredded fabric around the wound and then he ties it off tightly, hands fumbling to tie a secure enough knot. Sylvain laughs inwardly at Felix’s dedication – he’s clumsy when it comes to pretty much anything that isn’t wielding a weapon, but he takes his time and tries earnestly to replicate what Sylvain supposes he’s seen Mercedes and Manuela do on occasions where healing magic isn’t quite necessary. Outwardly, Sylvain wears a fond smile as he watches Felix’s hands work.

“I can’t believe you’d even let such a bunch of morons get a hit on you,” Felix says once he’s happy that the tie is secure. Seconds later, red blotches start seeping through the fabric and Felix frowns as he looks from Sylvain’s wound to the remains of the shirt as though pondering whether or not he should double his efforts.

“Unfair,” Sylvain says, standing up and shrugging his coat back on before Felix gives himself a headache. “I wasn’t blessed with a dagger like you. Although, I guess you could say that I technically saved your life, buying you that and all.”

“Completely irrelevant, because I also have a dagger in my boot,” Felix says, walking back over to retrieve all of his weapons. “But I could have taken them all with my bare hands anyway.”

“Yeah, you probably could have,” Sylvain says as he follows him and stands at his side. When he’s close enough, he knocks Felix with his shoulder. “Hey, thanks, Felix.”

Felix halts and looks up at Sylvain. His eyes narrow as he scrutinises Sylvain’s expression and he seemingly finds what he’s searching for because he resumes what he’s doing, albeit a lot slower. “Whatever. Just don’t get hurt again.”

“We’re soldiers,” Sylvain reminds him, “getting hurt is kinda in the job description.”

Felix doesn’t look at him when he says, “Yeah, but I don’t like it when it’s you. So don’t get hurt, idiot.”

Sylvain thinks that Felix might just be on a mission to kill him yet, in the slower, more torturous form of saying such obliviously romantic things that his heart might one day decide to give up and explode.

“I—OK. That’s a valid point. As long as you promise the same thing. Don’t go dying trying to prove something.”

“I already did.”

“Well, consider it a renewal of our vows,” Sylvain says, which earns him a scowl. “Promise it again.”

Felix’s scowl deepens, and as he finishes reassembling his weapons upon his back and his side, he mutters under his breath so quietly that Sylvian almost misses it; “Fine. I promise,” before stomping off in the direction of what Sylvain hopes is the lake.

“Hey, wait! Felix, what are we going to do with the bandits? We can’t just leave them lying there, they’ll wake up and come after us.”

“Throw them in the river.”

“Felix, we can’t throw them in the river.”

“Why not? They were trying to kill us. They’re from the Empire.”

Sylvain doesn’t want to say that the bandit’s revenge threats have gotten to him, because the topic is still sore after Rodrigue’s sacrifice. But the thought of losing Felix in a similar fashion fills him with such a crushing sense of dread that he finds himself trying to leave as little of a trail to follow as possible.

“Because they’re relatively harmless,” he says. “We should give them a chance.”

“Do whatever you want, but do it quickly. It’ll be night soon.”

** ** **

The sun has sunk considerably by the time Sylvain finishes looping rope around the tree that the bandits are now leaning against. It barely finds its way through the sparse branches above their heads, and it starts to become darker and darker seemingly by the second.

While Sylvain had worked on tying up the bandits, Felix had rifled through their stuff, looking for anything useful to pilfer and take with them for the rest of their journey. Sylvain hates to admit it, but their supplies are rapidly depleting with all of these detours – his savoury bread stash took a huge hit in the capsizing and the fruit hasn’t lasted nearly as long as he had hoped it would.

Luckily, amongst their spoils and stolen goods, Felix finds some water, some more tea, and, in their satchels, some tasty looking pastries that should at least see them through to Itha.

“It’s not stealing if it’s already stolen,” Felix says, and although Sylvain isn’t so sure about that, he doesn’t argue because he needs the provisions too, and ultimately, he reasons, it’s all in aid of the Kingdom anyway. Felix also takes their weapons, and at Sylvain’s protest in regards to the amount of weight the boat will be able to hold, he simply replies, “To throw in to the river. As a precaution.”

“Oh, well, good, because as much fun as swimming in the river was, I’m not sure I want to try it again if I can help it.”

“I might keep this one though,” Felix says, pointedly ignoring the river dip reference. He holds up a particularly large broadsword with an intricately carved hilt and runs a hand down the surface of the blade. “Goddess knows something else will go wrong and we’ll end up needing it.”

Sylvain can’t argue with that either - he’s half expecting to encounter the second coming of Nemesis himself by the time they get back to the monastery.

Every step they take in to the forest from here out feels dangerous, as though at any given moment, another group of bandits or some other form of beast might jump from the shadows to inconvenience them once more. Sylvain stays close to Felix’s side this time as they walk, so close that their shoulders bump on multiple occasions, but Felix doesn’t complain.

It takes them only ten minutes to find their way to the lake, but they’ve ended up a short distance away from the boat that thankfully still remains where they’d left it. Sylvain’s not sure what he would have done had it not been there. Probably just wait for the Goddess to take him.

On their way over, Sylvain acquiesces to the suggestion that they row for a little while in to the night to make up for lost time, he also doesn’t fight for the privilege to row, not when his arm hurts and is probably still bleeding through his clothes – he’s tempted to heal it himself, but he also doesn’t want to discredit Felix’s hard work. 

“Oh,” Felix says plainly as he arrives at the boat a few steps ahead of Sylvain.

“What now?” Sylvain groans, running a frustrated hand through his hair, imagining all sorts of inconvenient terrors. He watches Felix crouching down at the end of the dock, peering over the edge and sincerely hopes that whatever their new problem is, it's something solvable in around three seconds because he doesn’t have the mental capacity to deal with anything more severe or complicated than that.

“There’s a—there’s a cat, Sylvain.”

“What?”

“A cat. Sleeping in the boat.”

Sylvain arrives at the water and surely enough, curled up and sleeping on the boat floor is a small orange cat. Sylvain can’t help but let out a helpless laugh.

“Shh,” Felix elbows him quickly and shoots him a dangerous look. “You’ll wake it.”

“Felix, it’s just a cat. We need to get in the boat. Aren’t you the one constantly complaining about lost time?”

“If you keep shouting, you’re going to scare it in to the lake.”

“Good, then we can be on our way.”

Felix, who had, moments prior, suggested they throw human bandits in to the river to drown, looks at Sylvain as though he’s just suggested they commit the most heinous act of crime known to humankind.

“Are you being serious right now? Felix, it’s _a cat.”_

Felix ignores him and instead motions for Sylvain to hand him the satchel they’ve taken from the bandits, the one that contains the new food and water.

“_No_,” Sylvain says, exasperated, “you’re not giving our provisions to a mangy stray cat.”

“Sylvain,” Felix says waving his arm about, still waiting for the satchel, “our promise.”

“Our promise is for keeping each other _alive_ Felix, not for roping me in to looking after random stowaway! When did _I_ become the sensible one?”

“Will you stop whining and just give me the bag?”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Sylvain shakes his head and hands Felix the satchel, from where he watches him rustle through it to find a meat filled pastry. He breaks it in half, pulls out some meat, and starts snapping his fingers lightly to get the cat’s attention.

It wakes up with a jolt, and the boat sways a little as it raises its hackles and hisses at the two of them. Felix makes hushing noises and holds out the meat for it to sniff and Sylvain watches in a state of pure disbelief as the cat quietens and calms and jumps out of the boat and up on to the dock to take it from him.

Sylvain has never seen Felix this relaxed and unguarded around _anything_ before in his entire life. So, OK, maybe it’s worth losing one meal to see his small smile and hear his softened voice as he fawns over a scruffy-looking demon. Maybe it fills a void somewhere within him, maybe it makes him feel warm, and _maybe_ it makes him feel ever so slightly jealous of a _cat _for drawing this side out of Felix_._

The cat seems to mock him further when it rubs itself against Felix’s leg and meows softly for more meat, that Felix happily supplies accompanied by a scratch behind the ear.

“When did you become a cat whisperer?” Sylvain raises an eyebrow and watches Felix lead the cat back towards the safety of the forest trees by enticing it with food.

“When they all started following me around back in our academy days,” he huffs. “After training, I’d bring food back to my room and hordes of them would trail me all the way there and bother me until I gave them some.”

Sylvain suddenly wishes that he’d spent more time staying late to train with Felix, just to witness the spectacle that was an army of cats following him around the monastery.

“I thought we were under strict instruction from the guards not to encourage or feed the cats,” Sylvain teases.

“Hah, yeah,” Felix gets up and wipes pastry grease on to his trousers, content that the cat has found its way back in to the forest. “Not like I cared, though.”

“Oh, wow. Bad boy Felix, breaking the rules to feed the starving cat population. You’re making me swoon.” When Felix glares at him, Sylvain holds up his hands and clarifies, “No, you’re _actually_ making me swoon, that’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Shut up and get in the boat.”

It’s a struggle to jump down in to such a small boat without capsizing it again, but they manage to squeeze themselves in, and accommodate for all of their extra luggage that they’ve picked up along the way. Felix grabs the oars and tests them against the water with small splashes.

Sylvain closes his eyes and heaves a sigh of relief that they’re finally on their way again, things are finally getting underway and revels in the knowledge that they’ll have nothing to worry for until they get to Itha.

That is until needle sharp pain erupts in his thighs, and Felix starts uncontrollably laughing as Sylvain yelps and cries out whilst simultaneously trying not to launch himself overboard.

The cat has leapt from the edge of the dock and in to their boat. Felix is already rowing, already taking them out in to the lake and towards the river again as the cat clings for dear life to Sylvain’s legs in a painful death grip. Short of dumping it in to the water, there’s absolutely nothing he can do.

“_Fuck! _Get off!” Sylvain whines, trying to extricate the cat from his legs with the same kind of gentle care that he’d seen Felix treat it with, only to earn angry hisses in return. Felix laughs again and lets down the oars for a moment. He picks the cat up, dislodging its claws from Sylvain with minimal effort and resistance, and places it on his own lap where it settles down immediately and sits as though Felix’s touch has placed it under some kind of placatory spell.

_Guess this is our life now,_ Sylvain muses, staring in to large, orange eyes. _We’re rowing to Itha with a cat._

“Why does it hate me so much?” Sylvain grumbles aloud.

“Because it heard you call it mangy.”

“That’s not—wait, really?”

“Probably,” Felix shrugs and looks at the orange pile of fur that’s staring avidly at Sylvain. It doesn’t bother to move, even though Felix’s lap is constantly moving and jostling it around with each and every roll of the oars.

It hisses and wails when Sylvain moves in an attempt to stroke its head and tries to bat Sylvain’s hand away with a clawed fist.

“Guess your charm doesn’t work on everyone,” Felix says.

“You’ll see,” Sylvain pouts, leaning back. “By the time we get to Itha, it’ll love me more.”

“OK,” Felix scoffs, “whatever you say."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> currently taking suggestions for cat names


	6. The cat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I guess they own a cat now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the amazing name suggestions i hope you like the one i chose - thanks to Mynixia for suggesting it !!!

The cat is a pleasant weight on Felix’s lap. It warms him, reminds him of safer times when upwards of a dozen cats would sneak in to his dorm room back at the academy and demand food from him, keeping him company long in to the night until they would tire and jump from his open window only to return the following evening. Their new companion purrs languidly, contently stretching itself out and digging its claws in to Felix’s clothed legs to get even more comfortable.

For a while now, Felix has been watching amusedly as Sylvain battles sleep. His eyes fall closed for brief moments, only to rapidly blink themselves awake once he realises that he’s drifted off. Felix tells him to hang on for a little while longer, because the wind has favoured them since their return to the water, and speeds them along the river a slight margin faster than it has done previously.

According to the map, they had broken off on their diversion a few miles in to Galatea, meaning they’re now set to breach Blaidydd territory within the next few hours. Felix finds himself sighing in relief when he awakens to the realisation that if they carry on undisturbed for one more day, they might just manage to make it to Itha come the next sunset. Considering their history, however, Felix decides to push the estimated time of arrival forward to the following afternoon instead so as not to curse their boat with ill luck.

It’s all thanks to his relentless rowing on day one that they haven’t lost _too_ much ground searching for a map and subsequently being captured by the world’s worst bandits. Not that he's complaining, he definitely worked out a lot of stress and anger in the five minute long fight. Felix also resists the urge to gloat – maybe he’ll save it for when they eventually return to the monastery. For when Sylvain will, without a doubt, try to spin this whole mess as one big triumph on _his_ part and convince every ear within a mile’s radius of Garreg Mach, that they’d gone above and beyond orders, rather than fail them spectacularly.

As though he can hear Felix’s thoughts, Sylvain jerks himself back awake from where he’s nodded off silently once more. Felix conceals a smile as Sylvain shakes his head with a sleepy, and though he is reluctant to admit, rather cute, pout.

“What time is it?” he asks around a yawn.

“Unless you’re secretly concealing a clock somewhere on your person, I have no idea.” Felix assumes it must be nearing at least one in the morning, but he doesn't hazard the guess aloud.

“I’m too tired to even be offended by your sarcasm. Can we sleep now?”

Felix looks from the map that’s spread out on the wooden case between their two bodies, and then at Sylvain’s pleading eyes before caving in and heaving a sigh. He's seriously gotten soft if he's relenting this easy - maybe it's just Sylvain. He can't imagine anyone else managing to convince him so effortlessly. 

“Fine.”

With more than a struggle that Felix would care to admit, he pulls the boat over to the riverbank, plucks the cat gently from his lap and places him on the grassy bank first and foremost. Felix gives him a scratch behind the ear and tells him to stay put, which, miraculously, he does.

“Wow, what do I have to do to get you to be that gentle with me?” Sylvain somehow manages to quip through his tiredness.

“Be a cat,” Felix says, and jams an oar in to the muddy wall to stop the boat from moving. It takes all of his remaining strength to keep it there, which, after such a trying day, is starting to take its toll rather quickly on his aching arms.

“Damn. Do you think Annette knows some kind of cat spell? I’d pay her good money to go through with it.”

“Annette would never betray me in such a heinous manner.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Linhardt on the other hand, would probably take great pleasure in figuring out how to magic me in to a cat. I’m going to pay him a visit as soon as we get back.”

“You’re more of an idiot than I thought if you don’t think I’d know a _real_ cat from a _Sylvain_ cat,” Felix scoffs and motions with his head for Sylvain to jump out of the boat. It’s hard, because the boat is still trying to move, and it’s so damned small, and Sylvain is so damned _tall _that every little sway of it makes it feel as though it might capsize again.

“Hmm, how? Look for the most dashingly handsome and attractive cat?” he asks as he heaves himself on to the bank and proffers a hand for Felix to take. Felix grabs it and gets hauled out, quickly turning around and catching the boat before it sails away in the world's most awkward manouvre. 

“Look for the most _annoying_ cat.”

“Boo, that’s boring. You can say what you like, but I think I’d make a pretty cute cat,” Sylvain says, helping Felix drag the boat on to land. “You probably wouldn’t be able to resist my feline charm.”

“For the sake of my sanity, please go the fuck to sleep and stop talking about this nonsense.”

“Can’t argue with that. I think I’m about to pass out. And please don’t wake me at an unholy hour again Felix, I’m begging you.”

“I’ll wake you when I wake you,” Felix warns, “I can’t tell the exact time out here.”

“If it _feels_ early, it probably _is_ early,” Sylvain yawns and clears some twigs away from the forest floor to sleep upon.

When Felix makes to start up a fire, Sylvain grabs his ankle from where he’s already lying on his back on a muddied patch of sparse grass and says, “Don’t bother. Just sleep.”

“It’s cold,” Felix reminds him as a sliver of icy wind makes them both shiver, as though punctuating Felix’s point for him.

“It won’t be if we keep each other warm,” he says with a lazy smile, dragging out each syllable as though singing a suggestive song.

Felix snatches his ankle back and tries to kick Sylvain, but he artfully rolls out of kicking distance as though he had been expecting such an attack.

“Absolutely not."

Sylvain ignores him and pats the ground at his side, eyes closed as he edges towards sleep. “You know it’s the most practical way to spend the night, Felix. Keeping a fire lit and unattended for such a long time will cause us all sorts of trouble, especially in such a dense part of the forest. It could also lead our bandit buddies right back to us.”

“I hate it when you talk sense,” Felix snaps and his mind works overtime trying to work out what the best course of action is to take. He’s starting to think those tactics lessons might have come in handy right about now, if not for quickly planning escapes out of dire situations such as these. “Go back to being ‘pretend dumb’ or whatever.”

“Hmm, maybe tomorrow. But for now I’m going to revel in being the intellectual mastermind that I evidently am,” he pats the ground again and Felix sighs in resignation and starts removing the weapons from his back.

Really, he could simply ignore Sylvain, wait for him to inevitably fall asleep and forget this conversation even happened. But there’s something that’s stopping him from doing so – a want to be close to Sylvain. And he’s finding it extremely hard to come up with reasons _not_ to satisfy such a want. Especially when Sylvain is _inviting_ him to do so.

When he lies down with a faster-than-average heart rate, he keeps a small distance between them; a sizeable section of ground that feels like a wall of towering brick, rather than muddy, wind tousled grass. But Sylvain isn’t having it, and slings an arm and a leg over Felix, pulling him close with a surprising amount of force for someone so tired.

Sleeping side by side with their hands close to touching had almost been enough to rot Felix’s brain – this intimacy is seconds away from making his entire body spontaneously combust.

“Get off, you oaf. How am I supposed to sleep with you strangling me?”

“Science dictates that we need to be this close to survive the night,” Sylvain says in to Felix’s shoulder; his breath is warm and Felix supresses a shudder. “It’s a matter of life or death.”

“Yeah, and I’m going to die by means of suffocation,” Felix mutters through gritted teeth, keeping his wide eyed gaze intently focused on the parts of the starry sky that he can see through the tree branches.

“Less whining, more snuggling,” Sylvain says as though this doesn’t bother him in the slightest. If anything, he’s edging more on the side of _enjoying_ himself because Felix can _feel_ him grinning.

“How can we be sharing a _forest_ and you still take up all the room?” Felix shuffles under Sylvain’s weight to try and find some semblance of comfort. It’s a fruitless endeavour – even if he were lying atop the softest mattress in all of Fódlan he’d still find it hard to get comfortable with _Sylvain_ clinging to him like some sort of insistent monkey.

“You know, there are people back at the monastery who would kill for the privilege of cuddling me under the stars,” Sylvain says in lieu of an actual response.

“Oh, how utterly thoughtless of me to say such a thing,” Felix rolls his eyes and tries not to think about how he might just fall under that category of people. Maybe. “I’m sure if they actually spend more than five minutes with you, the dream will quickly fade.”

“Hmm, and yet you’ve spent your whole life at my side and you’re still not sick of me.”

“I’m a special case,” Felix says quietly. “Someone has to make sure you survive long enough to die of old age.”

“Yeah, _that’s_ why,” Sylvain mumbles and Felix can tell he’s smiling. “Definitely not for another reason, no?”

“I thought you were tired. Shut up and sleep already.”

“And the master of deflection strikes again,” Sylvain sighs and the burst of air against Felix’s neck _does_ make him shudder this time. It also makes his throat tighten and his heart stop briefly. _I really am going to die before waking_, Felix laments internally, hoping that Sylvain hasn’t noticed how rigid he’s gone.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s OK to admit that you actually _like_ being my friend. Nobody believes that you only stick around out of necessity or obligation, least of all me.”

“And here I was assuming you’d just attached yourself to my side like some kind of leech.”

“You should know that I’m fluent in Felix, and that I know that means:_ I’m your most beloved and cherished friend in all of __Fódlan_.”

Friend _is_ the right word, and yet it doesn’t seem enough, so Felix says, “I think your translation is a little off.”

Sylvain hums and somehow manages to pull Felix closer. “Whatever you say.”

They let the conversation peter out; Sylvain falls asleep and the calm silence is replaced with quiet snores that reverberate in Felix’s ear and make him painfully aware of his situation along with every rise and fall of his chest. Sometime later, the cat also makes himself at home on Felix’s stomach and pretty soon, he falls asleep, warmer and more content than he ever has been in his entire life.

** ** **

“Felix! Felix, where’s Nemesis?”

Felix comes around, and shockingly enough, Sylvain is awake before him. He blinks once, twice, three times against the sun that’s burning his eyes and making it hard to open them entirely. When he sits up, his back and neck are stiff and protest painfully after their sleep on such lumpy ground, but he stretches them out and turns to Sylvain to say with a groggy voice: “Dead, hopefully, or Rhea’s going to have a heart attack.”

“Again with the blasphemy,” Sylvain says. “But I wasn’t talking about _Nemesis _Nemesis, I was talking about _Nemesis. _The cat.”

“The cat is not called Nemesis,” Felix narrows his eyes.

“Uh, yeah it is. I named it.”

“_He,_” Felix corrects. “And Nemesis is a bad name.”

“No, it’s not. It’s a great name. Like you could do any better, you’d probably just name it ‘_sword_’ or something equally as depressing.”

“No I wouldn’t,” Felix huffs, and then adds, “come on, Sylvain, I’m not exactly the _best_ history student, but even I know that Nemesis committed atrocities. This cat has not committed any atrocities.”

“_Yet,_” Sylvain says. “But think of it as a good luck charm. If we carry cat-Nemesis with us, he’ll stop the _real_ Nemesis from appearing on the river and killing us, like I highly suspect he _will_ given our luck.”

“By that logic, shouldn’t he be called Seiros or something?”

“Seiros doesn’t sound as cool. Not that any of this even matters, because he’s _missing_.”

“Wow, now who’s being blasphemous? He’s probably just gone to look for food-- wait, why do you even care? Weren’t you the one dead against keeping the cat yesterday?”

“Uh, yeah, but that was before I started trying to prove a point.”

Felix rubs a hand over his face and wonders for a moment why, of all the idiots, he has to be stuck and ridiculously in love with _this _one. Because aforementioned idiot, is still currently crawling across the forest floor, looking under bushes and snapping his fingers in an attempt to search for the cat when Felix finally decides to stand up and get himself something to eat.

He has no inkling as to what the time is, but it’s not freezing cold, so he assumes it must be well in to the morning for the sun to be high enough to provide enough heat. The goods they stole from the bandits are still fresh, so Felix wastes no time in digging in to another of the pastries and sits back to enjoy the morning entertainment.

“How’s your arm?” Felix asks with a mouthful of food.

“My wha—Oh! Yeah, it’s fine,” Sylvain pauses his ridiculous cat noises and calls from behind a tree, “I can barely feel it. The cut, I mean, not my arm. _That_ would probably be a cause for concern.”

Felix hums in response and hears a _thud_ swiftly followed by a curse.

“I’m fine!” Sylvain calls before Felix can even inquire as to _what the fuck_ he’s doing. “Just tripped that’s all.”

Felix snorts a laugh and watches the cat that Sylvain is looking for saunter back from its hunting excursion. Felix thinks about telling him that it’s returned, but decides against it when he hears that Sylvain has resorted to singing another ridiculous song in order to garner its attention. Who needs to pay for tickets to the opera when Sylvain simply exists, free of charge?

Nemesis crawls in to his lap and Felix sits listening, trying to suppress his laughter enough to continue eating.

“Why exactly do you care what the cat thinks of you anyway?” Felix calls after a while, looking in to the cat’s orange eyes. He scratches its chin and contemplates him as though he might be able to provide an answer.

“_Nemesis,_” Sylvain corrects, and Felix can’t help but snort again when the cat turns his head in Sylvain’s direction, somehow already acquainted with his new name. “Because he needs to realise how charming I am! There’s no way I’m losing a battle of charm to _you_ Felix, this is supposed to be my area of expertise.”

“Hmm, maybe you’ve gotten rusty,” Felix says, “I haven’t heard of any romantic horror stories from around the monastery in a long time. I haven’t had to endure Ingrid’s complaints about you for a while either.”

It goes quiet for a moment, Felix thinks he’s said something wrong, but then Sylvain calls back, “Yeah, well, I’ve gotten stuck trying to woo one person for quite a while now, so it’s no wonder, really.”

Nemesis starts to eat Felix’s boot laces and he frowns, because Felix hasn’t noticed Sylvain trying to spend more time with any girls at the monastery like he used to, and he likes to think he’s pretty astute at noticing who Sylvain has set his sights on. It’s a necessity, in order to avoid them entirely. To prevent the pain and annoyance that comes with seeing Sylvain happy with someone else.

“They must be pretty stupid not to catch _your_ advances,” Felix scoffs, “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“Ha! Oh, Goddess, Felix, you have_ no_ idea. They might just be the densest, most clueless person I’ve ever met. Hell, I could tell them outright that I’m head over heels for them and they probably wouldn’t believe me.”

“Seems like a waste of time to me,” Felix says idly, stroking Nemesis’ fur in an attempt to distract him and save his own boot laces.

“Nah,” comes Sylvain’s subdued reply – it takes some strenuous listening on Felix’s part to catch it amongst the rustling of bushes and over sheer distance that Sylvain has travelled in search for the ‘missing cat’, but he hears it all the same. “I don’t think they’ll ever be a waste of time. They’re _way_ too important to me.”

Felix goes quiet - he’s not sure what to say because not only does it hurt to hear words he wishes were directed at himself, being spoken wistfully about someone else, but he’s not exactly a connoisseur of love advice either. If he _were_, he’d have solved his own problems _years_ ago. It hurts even more, because he’s never heard Sylvain so serious about someone before, and it leaves him hollow, more so than usual, because it doesn’t appear to be simple infatuation. It seems deeper, and Felix might not be able to simply 'wait that one out'.

“Hey, aren’t you curious? Aren’t you going to ask me who it is?” Sylvain calls again and his voice sounds closer this time, as though he’s given up and is making his way back.

“That’s your business,” Felix says nonchalantly, simmering and bubbling with disappointment beneath the surface. He pushes it all away quickly though, like he usually does, because he’s always insisted that his stupid feelings aren’t going to get in the way of his friendship with Sylvain – he’s one of the only friends he actually has, after all.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sylvain starts to say, “I think you’ll find it really—_Felix what the hell?”_

Sylvain breaks through the trees and stops in his tracks when he notices Felix wrestling his boot lace from the jaws of Nemesis.

“How long has he been here?” He asks, throwing his hands up in the air. Felix tries to retain a façade of indifference, but the way Sylvain’s hair stands up at all angles, littered with small leaves and bits of branches makes it impossible for him _not_ to laugh.

“I don’t know,” he manages to say, “a while?”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“You were busy, I didn’t want to bother you.”

“I—I’m not sure I’m enjoying the person you’re becoming, Felix. This newfound sense of humour is _extremely_ troubling. Are you sure you haven’t gotten a concussion from those bandits yesterday? Let me take a look.” Sylvain looks deeply troubled; his eyebrows furrow in confusion and he studies Felix as though he’s some kind of puzzle.

“I’m fine,” Felix says, dodging Sylvain’s muddy hands as they try to search his head for damage.

As if defending him, Nemesis hisses at Sylvain and Felix laughs harder. Sylvain jumps backwards, making a surprised noise as he dodges a swipe of the cat’s claws.

“I see,” Sylvain narrows his eyes at the cat, holding his hands up in surrender. “We have a _Felix the Second_ on our hands.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Felix picks up Nemesis and shields him from Sylvain’s scrutiny. The cat stops hissing and sits patiently in Felix’s arms.

“It just means that you’re both somehow impervious to my obvious charm, and that it’s going to take a while longer than I anticipated to win his affection, that’s all.”

“You make it sound as though you’ve already won mine,” Felix says with a grimace. “But it’s taken you over twenty years to get me to even _willingly_ spend time with you. I’m not sure cats live that long, Sylvain.”

Sylvain sputters and then huffs as he stalks over to the boat. “When are you going to go back to being all cute and complimentary? That was real nice. I miss that Felix. When is he going to return and tell me I’m a great and handsome chef again?”

“I don’t recall calling you handsome,” Felix rolls his eyes and puts down the cat to pack everything up ready to board the vessel again.

“It was implied.”

“Was it?”

“Yes. Also, I’m rowing,” Sylvain says. He looks determined all of a sudden, wearing the kind of face he wears at the start of a battle. The one he wears when he’s entirely serious, devoid of his usual underlying humour. The one that makes Felix’s face flush because it makes Sylvain look _extremely_ attractive.

“Oh no. Are you_ really_ going to start acting all tough and strong just to try and impress a _cat?_” Felix loads the wooden case on to the boat, next to his bow, and puts all of his weaponry back in order.

“No,” Sylvain says like a petulant child, squaring his shoulders in acceptance to the challenge. “I’m not going to _try_. I _am_ going to impress the cat. More importantly, I’m going to assert my dominance over the cat and earn his respect.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t actually be so bad if the real Nemesis rose from his tomb to smite us both,” Felix mutters.

Sylvain laughs at that, and pushes the boat back in to the water, holding it in place for Felix and Nemesis to climb aboard and begin the cramped journey along the river once more.

“After you, esteemed gentleman,” Sylvain says with a flourish in Nemesis’ direction. Nemesis hisses again.

“You know, you could just give him some food and he’ll probably start warming up to you,” Felix sighs, grabbing on to the bank for support as he lowers himself down in to the boat.

“That’s cheating,” Sylvain says. “I need to do this the old fashioned way.”

“When has that _ever_ worked out well for anyone?”

“Good point. Still happening though.”

“Goddess give me strength.”

** ** **

Felix soon stops complaining about Sylvain’s pathetic display of athleticism when he realises that they’re actually rowing at an incredibly high speed. As a result of Sylvain’s desperation to impress absolutely nobody, they’ve covered a lot of ground over the past few hours and according to the map they’re well in to Blaidydd by now. When Felix tells Sylvain as much, he slows his pace a slight bit and looks pensive for a moment, staring off in to the trees that surround them on either side as though he might catch a glimpse of the towns lurking in the distance and recognise something.

Felix doesn’t have to be a mind reader to know what he’s thinking – there are an awful lot of memories hidden and locked away in northern Faerghus and not all of them are pleasant, but a large portion of their lives were spent travelling between Blaidydd, Fhirdiad, Gautier and Fraldarius - it’s hard not to reminisce.

“Hey, remember when we’d all visit Dimitri here as kids,” Sylvain says, shaking away the sadness with a bittersweet smile. “You were so much more adorable back then.”

“Not this again,” Felix drawls. “I’ve had enough of this teasing from you and Ingrid over the past year to last me a lifetime.”

Which is true – Ingrid never stops complaining about how different grown-up Felix is from baby Felix, which is not only _obvious_ but downright irritating. Twenty or so years will do that to a person, especially when half of them have been spent witnessing the horrors of war. At least talking to the boar these days comes along with the benefit of them _both _being embarrassed about their childhood selves and choosing to ignore them entirely, and that’s something he’d never thought would be possible – to hold a decent conversation with Dimitri.

“But tiny Felix was so sweet,” Sylvain coos. “You used to hug me way more back then too. I kinda miss that, y’know? You haven’t hugged me properly since…” he breaks off and looks off in to the distance as though trying to recall a memory, “I can’t even remember the last time you hugged me, isn’t that sad? I vote we fix that."

Felix reaches over the boat to scoop a handful of freezing water, and splashes it in to Sylvain’s face in response. Nemesis doesn’t even stir from his position in Felix’s lap, not even when Sylvain yelps and coughs and sputters as though Felix has just attempted to drown him.

“You’re so dramatic.”

“It went in my _mouth_, Felix. That’s disgusting.”

“That’ll teach you for talking so much. Also, if I remember correctly, and I always do, baby Sylvain was even more of a nightmare than _supposed adult_ Sylvain.”

“Hey! That’s not true. Every single one of my teachers called me ‘a delight’.”

“Did they tell you that_?_”

“No, but they probably thought it. I _was_ a delight.”

“I think Margrave Gautier and several hundred girls would beg to differ,” Felix laughs, but his thoughts quickly turn sour when he envisions the future rather than looking to the past. Because in every future he can foresee, he’s not sure where he fits in to Sylvain’s life, or where Sylvain fits in to his. They’ve always said that they’ll stick together, make sure the other stays alive, keep their promise going strong. But war is always uncertain, and so are the years that follow. And, if he’s being entirely honest with himself, Felix is slightly worried that without a war, Sylvain won’t have an excuse to stick by _his_ side any longer.

Will they still be close enough in ten years’ time to laugh about this very conversation? This messenger trip of nightmares? Because, yes, they’ve been together since they were children, but Felix can’t expect Sylvain to hang around just because he wants him to. Not if he has plans of his own.

Or, in a darker and more terrifying timeline, will Felix be miserably running his dead father’s estate, waiting for a wedding invitation to turn up and crush him in to tiny little pieces? The thought of enduring sparse visits from someone he holds so dear, loves so earnestly, visiting with someone else on his arm and making new promises, twists his stomach in to knots.

“Hey, you OK? You look grumpier than usual all of a sudden.”

Felix looks at him, takes in his concerned features and it frustrates him all that tiny bit more that he can’t just voice how he feels, not right now, not on this ridiculous little wooden boat when Sylvain has just confessed to loving someone else entirely.

“What are you going to do after the war?” he asks instead, needing _something_ to hold on to, needing some kind of reassurance.

“Me? Oh, uh. Well, I don’t know, actually. Probably stick around for a while, see if anyone needs me. Haven’t really given it that much thought, don’t even know if we’re gonna survive to see it yet, right?”

“Of course we are, stupid,” Felix frowns, because there is _no_ outcome in which he or Sylvain dies. That is even more unthinkable.

“Oh well, in that case, I guess I’ll do whatever I can to piss my father off and discontinue my bloodline. Hey, Felix, ever considered becoming a street performer? I bet you’d be real good at juggling daggers or something equally as dangerous. Maybe we can set them on fire or something.”

Felix lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and it’s shaky and full of relief and he suddenly feels very silly for ever doubting Sylvain, for thinking such negative thoughts.

“Why am I included in this clown plan?” he asks, entirely elated that he is involved in said clown plan, despite how moronic it sounds.

“Why wouldn’t you be?” Sylvain frowns, and Felix feels like he’s been punched, because his worries leave him abruptly and painfully. “Are you trying to say you’re aiming to go solo and be my street performing_ rival_ instead? That’s not fair, Felix. I had a whole set planned and everything.”

“A set?” Felix raises a brow and Sylvain grins at him. “You’ve been indulging in this fantasy so much you’ve produced a set?”

“Yeah,” Sylvain says simply. “You’ll be the villainous and dangerous thief, and I’ll be the dashing, charming, handsome, heroic knight that brings you to justice. You know, that kind of set.”

“Villainous thief…”

“Yeah, because, come on, let’s be real, you do look like a villain sometimes. But one of those infuriatingly handsome ones that you can’t believe is actually evil because you still wanna—_you know.”_

“I’m not quite sure I do,” Felix narrows his eyes and now suddenly feels more like an _idiot _than ever for even bringing up this line of conversation in the first place, because Sylvain has a knack for turning the serious in to the ridiculous. Maybe he _will _make a good street performer after all.

“Of course you don’t. OK, well, that’s not important,” Sylvain clears his throat, averts his gaze to Nemesis and consequently increases his rowing pace again. “What were _you_ planning on doing?”

“Haven’t really thought about it either. Don’t want to go home, though. Too much shit that I really don’t want to deal with.”

The last thing Felix wants to do after finally felling Edelgard and the Empire is to return home to the mess his father has left him. To deal with the estate and all the endless paperwork and responsibility and noble nonsense that he couldn’t care less about. He’d rather find new work for his sword than trade it for a pen and hours of endless boredom. It’s a shame he doesn’t have another sibling to pawn it off on; he supposes he’ll have to settle for an uncle.

“Hmm, looks like we’re just going to have to share a plan for a while then,” Sylvain says. “I already have several costume ideas.”

“I’m not quite sure I’ve agreed to the street performing, Sylvain.”

“Hey, don’t back out now. I’ll even write in a part for Nemesis. He can be like your evil little sidekick.”

“This is why he doesn’t like you,” Felix reminds him. “You call him evil.”

“That’s because he is,” Sylvain grumbles, staring at his sleeping form.

As though he can _feel_ the intensity of Sylvain’s glare, and hear his insults from beyond consciousness, Nemesis wakes up to nudge his head against Felix’s hand with a tired squeak, and Felix gives him a small, reassuring smile, petting him back to sleep.

“I take it back,” Sylvain makes a choked noise and backtracks suddenly. “That cat is the best thing that’s ever happened to us, Felix. Let’s get another one.”

“We can barely look after the one we have,” Felix reminds him, trying not to dwell too heavily on how happy the use of ‘us’ makes him feel.

“I believe in us, Felix, we’ll be great fathers. Let’s get ten. Become a travelling circus.”

“From heirs of noble houses, and the King of Faerghus’ most trusted and feared soldiers, to owners of a travelling circus – everyone’s going to be _so_ proud.”

“Can’t wait,” Sylvain grins.

And Felix will take that outcome over every single one of the other scenarios his mind has concocted any day of the week. Because as long as his future contains Sylvain _somehow_ it can’t really be considered a bad ending. Not really.


	7. Uneventfully Onward.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Itha, at last!

Uneventful. That’s the only word that comes to mind the entirety of the rest of the journey to Itha. The boat comes to a calm stop in another lake, one much larger than the previous, and one with no other exits. The river seemingly stops here, as though telling them they’ve reached their destination, and there’s a considerably less dilapidated boat dock waiting for them upon their arrival.

Sylvain groans when they finally step out of the boat – it feels as though they’ve spent years cramped inside of it, and his legs feel as stiff and wooden as the planks he’s been sitting on for the past ten hours. The air somehow feels different too; it smells less like river water, and more like success and freedom.

It feels strange to have finally arrived – and earlier than expected too. Sylvain wasn’t entirely sure they’d even make it this far after the disastrous first day. Hell, he’d half expected to have been murdered by Felix within the first four hours, so this feels like a momentous milestone to say the very least. In fact, after waking up in the middle of a forest with his head resting on Felix’s chest for the second morning in a row, Sylvain is more inclined to call it a resounding success, and is all too willing to discard and forget all of the previous mishaps altogether.

Felix ties the boat to the dock and takes his time doing it, mumbling something about it probably getting stolen before they return, and Sylvain stretches as he waits, shaking out the kinks and knots in his muscles with something of an eager skip to his step.

“Man, I haven’t been to Itha in _years,_” Sylvain says as they finally start to move through the forest in search for the nearest town. They’re going to have to walk a while and ask around to find out exactly _where_ Dimitri’s uncle lives – apparently Dimitri hasn’t actually been in contact with him since he was the acting Regent on Dimitri’s behalf, back when they all still attended the academy. The Duke's been quiet during this whole war affair, but now, Sylvain supposes, desperate times call for desperate measures. They can only hope this trip coughs up _something_ useful, or Sylvain’s never going to hear the last of it.

“We’d stop off there sometimes on our way to your estate,” Felix says, dusting his hands off on his trousers before assuming a readied grip on the hilt of his sword. The bandit attack has clearly made him wary of forests now – he constantly looks ready to fight with every step they take, eyes darting around and head tilted conspicuously to one side for more precise hearing. “It used to be really lively.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain agrees, because he’d done the same. Itha was a convenient midway point between their two territories, a place brimming with life and better food than usual, mostly made up of quaint little villages and cosy towns that always looked way more inviting than the icy exterior of the Gautier manor. “Did you ever try the sweet buns?”

“On occasion. I suppose they were better than most sweet things,” he says, but his expression betrays him, twisting in to one of displeasure, and Sylvain laughs, because Felix’s dislike for sweet foods is so typically and predictably _Felix _that it’s comedic.

“If there’s one thing I enjoy about living away from home, it’s the food,” Sylvain says. “I didn’t even know spice existed until we got to Garreg Mach.”

“Tell me about it,” Felix snorts. “I can’t say much because I’ve not even so much as raised a ladle before, but I’m not sure a single person in Faerghus knows how to cook.”

“I’m not exaggerating when I say that Dedue and Ashe turned my world upside down.”

“Hm,” Felix hums, “that bread _was_ good. It’s a shame it’s all gone.”

“Don’t worry,” Sylvain winks, “I’ll make you some more when we get back.”

Unfazed, Felix shrugs, “I’m going to have to hold you to that.”

“Oh? You can hold me against anything you like—”

Nemesis hisses and cuts Sylvain off before he embarrasses himself. Or not. Probably not; he’s always embarrassing himself in one way or another so it’s not as though it matters. But, surprisingly enough, the hiss isn’t aimed at Sylvain this time. The cat is hissing and snarling at something neither of them can see, something in the distance and Felix bristles, unsheathing his sword. Sylvain – unarmed – holds his hands ready at his side, with some flames flickering in his palms for good measure.

They both look around, trying to pinpoint exactly _what_ the cat is causing such a fuss over, but just as quickly as he had begun to hiss - he stops, and acts as though nothing has happened. 

“What was _that _for?” Sylvain asks the cat, to which he, predictably, gets no response.

“Stay alert. Cats have a really acute sense of danger. He’s probably sensed something.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not,” Sylvain says weakly, staring at Nemesis, who’s now licking and cleaning his genitals as though he hasn’t just scared the living hell out of them both.

“I’m entirely serious, Sylvain. In fact, here,” Felix shuffles, and shakes his spear off of his back, handing it over to Sylvain. “You’d best be armed, just in case.”

Sylvain raises a brow, but doesn’t argue. He takes the spear eagerly and keeps it in his left hand – wooden case still lumbering awkwardly around in his right - using it as a makeshift walking stick that’s ready to become a deadly weapon at the first sign of a threat. He already feels more comfortable with his weapon of choice, and his shoulders relax slightly knowing he won’t be entirely useless if something awful does happen.

“Fantastic,” Sylvain says after a painfully long pause. He waits another few seconds before he starts to lead the way forward again, content that nothing seems to be springing out from behind any trees to ambush them this time. “It was starting to get a bit boring around here.”

“Usually, I’d agree with you,” Felix follows suit and rolls his shoulders, “but my back and neck muscles beg to differ. I need to get back to my room. I _need_ to sleep on a real bed.”

“Hmm, really? But I’ve been having such _great_ sleep,” Sylvain grins.

Felix turns on him, sword still drawn in a distant threat, and fixes him with a bored look. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, his lips turn downwards in to a disapproving frown, and he says in a tone that’s vapid and lifeless: “I bet you have, you room-hogging parasite.”

“You’d get way better sleep if you just gave in and cuddled me back, Felix. I bet you’d fit perfectly in my arms.”

“I bet my fist would fit perfectly in your face, too,” he says, but it comes out as more of a stuttered protest rather than a real threat and it makes Sylvain’s grin widen.

“I can think of plenty of other places you could—”

“I’d advise you not to finish that sentence, Sylvain.”

“Good idea.”

Sylvain feels somewhat emboldened in his attempts to flirt with Felix. Their recent conversations play over and over in his head and he feels as though he’s getting somewhere, albeit very slowly, as though he’s picking away at a wall of dense stone with nothing but a dinner knife and a prayer. There’s an annoying, nagging voice at the back of his mind that’s constantly repeating the phrase ‘_tell him, tell him, tell him’ _like an annoying child, but for once, Sylvain doesn’t want to be so forward.

He wants Felix to come to his own realisations, to express how he feels on his own accord, rather than have Sylvain force all manners of complications upon him and expect them both to come out the other side unscathed and unchanged. That doesn’t mean he can’t not-so-subtly inform Felix how he himself feels however, because it’s not as though Felix is really picking up on any of his hints anyway. He just has to hope that his brain cells will eventually start working inside that complicated little mind of his long enough to connect the dots.

After their last disastrous forest jaunt, Sylvain actually pays attention to his surroundings this time around, and sticks much closer to Felix’s side. There’s something about a cat hissing ominously at an empty forest that puts Sylvain on edge, makes him tread lighter, makes him doubt every sound he hears.

But no matter how intensely he searches for something out of the ordinary, the forest remains austere and barren; not even the wind dares to make any more noise than a quiet whistle as it dances across crisp leaves. Granted, they’ve treaded more intimidating ground – they’ve traversed the hellish terrain of the Valley of Torment and battled the ghosts of their former friends and classmates at Gronder Field – but there’s something eerie about complete silence that makes Sylvain’s nerves jitter and squirm. Something about the unknown that unsettles him more so than facing a thousand-strong army head on. Something that makes him decide rather quickly, not to pick up another horror novel for the rest of his days.

Still, they soldier on. Nemesis doesn’t make any more prophetical noises and trails them happily, keeping at Felix’s heel, occasionally darting forward to chase away small forest animals of various kinds. Sylvain’s heart explodes and his knuckles turn white under his steadfast grip upon his spear every single time he does it, but that’s about as interesting at things get.

It’s colder in Itha – Sylvain is used to even more severe weather, having grown up even further north, but the air still leaves him slightly chilled and achy. It also helps none that the wind is against them, turning both of their faces red and cold, and rendering Sylvain’s ears painfully numb.

“Looks like it might rain,” Felix says, venturing a glance at the clouds. He’s probably right; they’re a gloomy grey and look ready to unleash torrents of pent up rainfall at any given second. Sylvain grimaces – he’s not particularly fond of the rain _or_ the way it seeps in to clothing and makes everything smell and feel damp.

“Suppose we’ve been quite lucky so far,” Sylvain says agreeably. “I’m just thankful it hasn’t started snowing.”

Felix makes a face, “Ugh, don’t speak it in to existence. That’s the last thing we need.”

“Aw, don’t say that, Felix. Wouldn’t it at least be _kind_ of fun to stop off and build some snow sculptures?”

“And you think _my_ idea of fun is warped.”

“I’m pretty sure playing in some snow is _definitely_ a more acceptable pastime than dancing with death and engaging in combat with bandits, Felix.”

“In your opinion,” Felix amends, entirely seriously.

“I do worry about you,” Sylvain says cheerfully, thinking for a moment about clapping Felix on the shoulder, and then abandoning the idea when he realises that not only are both of his hands full, but he’ll probably get an earful from Felix’s new guard-cat if he so much as raises a hand in his direction. “Tell you what, as soon as this pesky war is over, I’m taking you on a trip.”

“Oh _Goddess_, not another one please. Haven’t you tortured me enough?”

Sylvain laughs, honest and hearty, “No! This one will be better! No bandits, no almost-drowning, no sleeping on forest floors. Just a nice ol’ time with your _favourite_ person.”

“You’re not really selling it to me.”

“You’re just going to have to trust me when I say it’ll be amazing. In fact, I _promise_ that you’ll definitely enjoy yourself.”

“Last time I dealt in promises, I got stuck with _you_ for eternity. I’m endeavouring not to make that same mistake again.”

“You know, I don’t believe you for a second.”

“They do say ignorance is bliss.”

** ** **

Sylvain wishes he could say that Itha was as bustling and lively as he once remembered it being, but when they find their first Ithan town, it’s desolate and, for a lack of a better word, _wrecked._ The town buildings are largely demolished; chunks of brick and stone litter the ground like smashed glass, lying not far from where they’ve left gaping cavities in the surrounding architecture.

House doors remain haphazardly strewn open, presumably done so in an attempt to leave and escape danger hastily. Sylvain frowns, a bad taste developing in his mouth and worsening the more details he takes in – the broken windows, the charred remnants of wooden buildings and, more alarmingly, skeletal remains of long dead villagers. The smell is nothing short of _rancid_ – a mix of rotting decay and burnt mould that makes Sylvain wish he had a hand free to cover his mouth and nose, because every breath in is making his stomach turn uncomfortably.

“Empire?” Sylvain asks.

“At the root of it,” Felix says, kicking some rubble out of his way. “More specifically, I think this was a Demonic Beast attack.”

“Looks like it was a long time ago though,” Sylvain ventures, observing what once appeared to be a food stall, now half smashed but still displaying rotting food. “Probably a few months, at least.”

Felix hums distantly and walks forwards, the gravel and debris crunching beneath his boots being the only noise that breaks the dispiriting silence. Felix unsheathes his sword again, continuing with it in a readied position.

“We’d best keep going,” Felix says, “it might still be nearby.”

“Shit, I hope not.”

The further in to town they go, the more ruined everything becomes. The outskirts seem to have gotten a slightly less severe trampling compared to the demolition of the more built up areas. The buildings are nothing but skeletons of what they used to be, and Sylvain can see through huge holes in the brick and make out what used to be family homes inside, sadly devastated and abandoned.

“How the hell did a Demonic Beast even make it all the way up here?” Sylvain asks after a while, sick of seeing so much ruin and misery with each blink of his eyes.

“Beats me,” Felix mutters. “But more importantly, where were the soldiers to stop it?”

“Not to sound morbid, but I sure do hope they died trying, rather than upping and leaving a bunch of civilians to fend for themselves against one of those things.”

“If that’s the case, I’ll hunt them down and kill them myself,” Felix says with a bitter grimace, stepping over what Sylvain sincerely hopes is a charred wooden plank, and not a human limb.

Nemesis treads carefully over the rubble, gingerly weaving in and out of collapsed structures as he follows them onward. Sylvain keeps a firm eye on the cat, watching him like some kind of Demonic Beast Alarm, waiting with baited breath for him to alert them to the offending monster with each twitch of his little pink nose.

It only gets more depressing the longer they stay walking. The town fades in to another that is equally as wrecked as the last with not a single soul alive and remaining to shed light on the disaster. The damage does, however, appear to have been caused by the same Beast– there are evident claw marks marring what remains of brick buildings, and in this town, Sylvain has spotted more than a few discarded weapons lying amongst the rubble too.

“We need to tell Dimitri about this,” Sylvain says. “Get a team to help clean everything up.”

“I want to ask the Grand Duke of Itha a question first,” Felix says, teeth bared in barely contained anger. “If this happened months ago, we should have been told about it.”

Sylvain supposes that’s true – usually, distress calls and messages come from across Faerghus whenever another Demonic Beast has reared its head and started to wreak havoc. Within days, an experienced team are on hand to save villagers and deal with the threat, but no such thing has transpired here. If Felix and Sylvain hadn’t been on this mission, odds are, nobody would have known about this disaster at all. Sylvain suddenly feels nauseated again.

Upon leaving the first two towns they set off across a hilly field to the next. It’s a quiet journey, neither Felix nor Sylvain know what to say, too taken aback by the sheer devastation they’ve witnessed in the previous two towns to even find the energy to banter. They’ve seen countless scenes such as these, and yet it never gets any easier to know that they can’t help everyone.

To Sylvain’s immense relief, the next town they encounter holds some semblance of life. He can hear the distant sound of hammering and construction, as though there’s an attempt to rebuild happening not too far off in the distance. Sylvain and Felix share a knowing look, and quicken their pace in that direction.

It’s hard to say how long the residents have been ploughing on with reconstruction, but there doesn’t seem to be a lot of progress being made. The buildings look just as mutilated as the hundreds of others that Sylvain has seen, only there are towering metal beams and ladders encircling them and actual real-live human beings scattered around holding large pieces of parchment, equally as large tools, and chatting quietly. There don’t seem to be any other people around – the town hasn’t returned to its peaceful status as of yet; people don’t seem to be in a rush to move back in to homes without rooves.

Felix stalks over to a small group of them, sheathing his sword just in time so as to not appear as a threat.

“What happened here?” he asks.

His attempts at appearing non-threatening are all in vain, the villagers look up from their parchment and fix him with a wide-eyed stare that borders on being utterly terrified. They scramble backwards and Sylvain tries not to laugh when one even goes as far as to raise a hammer at Felix in protection.

“I’m a Kingdom soldier,” Felix says tersely, “lower your… weapon.”

“Sorry,” one of them says with a shaky sigh of relief, dropping the hammer to his side. “We’ve had quite the time of it these past few months.”

“I can imagine you have,” Felix says with a cursory glance at their surroundings. “Demonic Beast?”

“That it was,” another one answers shakily. He looks shaken, as though the mere mention of it will somehow alert it to their presence. Sylvain can’t blame them – he’s had quite the awful experience with Demonic Beasts himself; every single one that they encounter somehow still manages to bear Miklan’s face no matter how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise. “Blew right through us. Tore everything apart. We didn’t have any time to react – all of our soldiers had already been dispatched to the town over to deal with reports of violence and before we knew it, everything was ruined, everyone was—” he stops for a moment to gather himself before saying quietly, “it was awful.”

“The Duke,” Felix glowers, “why didn’t he send for help?”

“We’re under strict instruction not to request help from the Kingdom,” the third man says. “The Grand Duke says he doesn’t want us to get involved in this war nonsense, but if you ask me, it’s a bit late for that.”

“I’d say so,” Sylvain says quietly, remembering the very first town and how they probably stood no chance whatsoever.

“We don’t _have_ to answer to him,” he continues, “but he used to be the King Regent, and, well, we all just kind of follow whatever he says, you know? It’s like he’s still King, I guess.”

Sylvain nods silently and Felix clicks his tongue in displeasure.

“So, did he change his mind? Did he send for you?” they all look hopeful, eyes practically begging for an affirmative answer. “Are reinforcements coming?”

“He didn’t,” Felix informs them, and Sylvain watches them physically deflate. “We’re here to deliver a message, but once we return, we’ll be dispatching a team immediately, regardless of what your Duke says.”

“You’ve done well to hold on this long,” Sylvain says, patting on of them on the shoulder in what he hopes is reassurance. He gets a weary smile in response and thinks that maybe it’s worked.

“Yeah, I don’t know about that. That _thing_ is still out there,” another man says, looking off in to the distance with a slight shudder.

“It wasn’t taken down?” Felix asks, eyes widening. That doesn’t bode well. The Beast could already be out there attacking another town as of right now.

“Goddess, no. We didn’t have the power to take down something that large. All we could do was evacuate - everyone who survived is currently in Itha’s capital, probably sleeping rough on the streets, two towns north of here. But the Beast suddenly just stopped attacking one day, ran off in that direction,” the man points east and Felix follows his hand as though he might point him to the Beast itself. “It’s been at least a month since anyone’s seen it, but it’s still out there. Everyone’s too scared to move back in to their homes, case it comes back, but we’ve been trying to rebuild and make everything go back to normal best we can.”

“And where are the rest of your soldiers?” Felix asks.

“In the capital, presumably. Protecting what’s left.”

They thank the men for their help, and get pointed in the direction of the Duke’s estate. When they start walking again, Sylvain can feel the heated anger radiating from Felix like a _fire_ spell – in this state of fury, Sylvain doesn’t think it’s too farfetched of him to say that Felix could probably take down a Demonic Beast by himself.

“Didn’t think Dimitri’s uncle was such a cowardly _swine,_” Felix spits when they’re out of earshot of the villagers. “I’ll shove the message canister down his throat when we find him.”

“As much as I’d love to see that happen,” Sylvain says cautiously, “I don’t think Dimitri would be all too pleased.”

“I don’t care what Dimitri thinks. He not only neglected to tell us that the Duke was staying out of war affairs entirely, and that this trip would most likely be a _waste of time,_ but he also left out the crucial part where his uncle is a bumbling idiot coward who couldn’t clean up the shit from own his ass, never mind a whole territory from a Beast attack. How the _hell_ did Faerghus ever operate under him?”

“Guess it was a good thing we were at the academy, huh?”

Felix scoffs and massages his temples, “Goddess, this is such a mess.”

“A monumental mess,” Sylvain says agreeably, “But hey, at least we found out about it, right? We can help fix it.”

“Hm,” Felix acquiesces, still obviously unhappy with the entire thing, and fumes quietly at Sylvain’s side as they continue to walk. Sylvain knows better than to try and calm Felix down – it’s definitely not what he needs – to hear Sylvain reaming off mile long excuses and empty reassurances.

“Now I’m _really_ starting to be glad they didn’t send Caspar and Ashe,” Sylvain says after a while, trying instead to distract Felix from his thoughts entirely, at least until they get to the Duke, lest Felix be forming some kind of assassination attempt behind that scarily neutral façade of his. “Not that they aren’t competent,” Sylvain amends when Felix raises a brow, “just that Caspar probably would have run off by himself screaming bloody revenge upon the Beast by now, message be damned.”

“Can’t say I’d blame him,” Felix mutters. “Message seems about as useful now, as the guy who supposedly runs this place. Damned _fool._”

“Please leave the talking to me when we arrive, Felix,” Sylvain winces. “We don’t want to start a civil war on top of everything else.”

“I’m not making any promises. If my sword should accidentally find its way out of its sheath, that won’t be my fault. And neither will any threats that follow it.”

“_Felix,_ there’s all sorts of politics and shit involved with this kind of stuff, we can’t just go in threatening to cut his dick off and still expect him to lend us provisions and soldiers afterwards.”

“Who cares? It’s not as though they have the stuff to spare anymore. How can we, in good conscience, take anything from Itha when most of its people are sleeping rough on the streets? I vote we kick the Duke’s ass, throw the message in to the river, go home and then convince the professor to send the whole team this way.”

Sylvain stares at Felix for a while, not quite sure what to say. He’s never seen Felix so passionate about something before, never seen him really take charge and speak such unabashed _sense. _Usually, he’d spend most tactic meetings either ignoring everyone, or airing his frustrations concerning Dimitri and his behaviour with scathing, ill-timed insults. Sylvain can’t help but _enjoy_ this new Felix, despite the less than desirable circumstances.

He also knows that Felix is right and that this mission has suddenly taken on an entirely different purpose. There was no way that the professor and Dimitri could have known about this, especially not when the Duke was trying to keep it all under wraps, but now they have a responsibility, and Sylvain is more than happy to let Felix take charge.

“I—fine, OK. You’re right. But let me at least _try_ to talk with the Duke first.”

Felix looks slightly shocked to hear that Sylvain’s agreed with him so readily, but quickly rearranges his features in to an air of indifference.

“Do whatever you want, but I can’t see what good it’s going to do.”

“I guess I want answers,” Sylvain says quietly. “I think Dimitri deserves to at least know the whole story and not just our version of events.”

“Then he should come down here and ask him himself.”

“Maybe he will,” Sylvain says distantly. “But we should do what we can for now. Who knows, if the Duke pisses me off enough, I might just suddenly find myself with my eyes closed and my hands over my ears if you know what I mean.”

“Now’s hardly the time for your _indecent_ talk, Sylvain,” Felix says, but he’s smiling again.

** ** **

It takes them a couple of hours to get to the central Ithan town. Sylvain’s feet ache from the walk on uneven rubble strewn floors, and by the time they get there, he’s glad to be walking on flat ground once more, even if it _has_ started raining.

The capital, to absolutely nobody’s surprise is completely unmarred. It’s as though there has been no Demonic Beast attack at all, like the Beast has avoided this one town in particular as though it were a nasty plague and Sylvain scowls at the large manor estate that he can see in the near distance.

Like the men said, the streets are completely overtaken by homeless villagers seeking comfort and safety. Makeshift tents have been erected haphazardly wherever there’s room, housing desperate families and the injured, and people are milling about, trying their best to help treat the wounded and feed the children.

The rain comes down heavier, and Sylvain looks at the manor again where it’s perched atop its hill, surrounded by big metal gates and completely out of harm’s way. If the Beast did attack this town, Sylvain thinks, the Duke would be completely safe from it all up in his little castle while the villagers fend for themselves. Felix bristles at his side, obviously coming to the same conclusion.

“Hey,” Sylvain says, approaching and crouching down to meet a woman and child taking cover from the rain under the thin fabric roof of a tent. “Is that the Duke’s manor?” he points to the big building, already knowing the answer, but wanting to confirm the knowledge nevertheless. He’s not sure he could handle the mortification of bashing down the door of the _wrong_ Duke.

She nods quietly, eyes wide and brimming with tears. The child on her knee looks worse for wear with a large, partially healed gash on his forehead and a leg that looks to be pointing in the wrong direction.

“How long have you been here?” Sylvain asks.

“Two months,” she says shakily, “the Beast attacked our home two months ago.”

“And the Duke hasn’t sent for any aid whatsoever?” Felix practically snaps nastily and the child startles. Sylvain puts a hand out behind him and it lands on Felix’s abdomen in a signal to stand down. He calms somewhat, clicking his tongue and looking away.

“No,” the woman says, tightening her hold on her child. “He says it’s our business, that we should deal with it ourselves, but, we haven’t seen him in over a month. He doesn’t leave the manor, gets his staff to relay messages to us, giving us orders on how to rebuild, but there’s nothing we can do. We don’t have the supplies or the money to do as he says. And that Beast could come back at any time,” her voice wavers towards the end of her speech and she cuts herself off, looking at the ground as rain lashes against it in a rhythmical beat.

“Are there any soldiers here at all?”

“They all left to try and pursue the Beast. It’s been over two weeks since we last them though.”

“_Goddess,_” Sylvain straightens and runs a hand through his rain-messed hair. “Don’t worry,” Sylvain says softly, “we’re here now, OK?”

The woman nods again, but doesn’t look as convinced as he’d like her to be. Sylvain sighs and turns on his heel and that’s when an almighty roar rips through the sky. It cracks like thunder, piercing through the heavy rain and it’s as though _silence_ has been cast upon the entire town, freezing everything in place. Children cease their crying, feet stop shuffling and chatter drops dead – the only noise to be heard is the patter of rain against cobbles.

Felix moves first. He grabs the cat and Sylvain’s wooden case and practically throws them at the frozen woman and child who stare at him owlishly. 

“Look after these. When it’s safe, take them to the Duke’s manor OK? Say they’re ours,” he says, trying to get them to understand. He waits for them to nod before continuing. “Now _run_, get as many people as you can to get to cover and stay as safe as you can manage.”

Nobody moves, and another roar pierces the silence, closer this time, and this one awakens the dormant fear and panic within the entire street. Noise erupts, people start wailing and bustling about, shouting and screaming all sorts of discouraging things. Sylvain watches them all, studies their faces and logs them to memory to remember who he’ll be fighting for.

“_Go,_” Felix urges again, and then grabs Sylvain’s arm to pull him through the streets. Sylvain complies easily, shaking away any apprehension and reaching for the spear on his back, wrenching it over his shoulder and holding it out ready. They run towards the direction of the roar – which, thank the Goddess, seems to be in the direction of the expansive town square, rather than any built up streets.

“Our timing stays impeccable,” Sylvain manages through hurried breaths as he tries not to trip on the rain slicked ground.

“Ha,” Felix barks out a laugh, “it’s going to get us killed one day.”

“Well, hopefully, today is not that day.”

“Yes, hopefully.”

The roar sounds again, and just as Sylvain and Felix break through in to the, thankfully, deserted town square, the Demonic Beast lands with a devastating crash on the top of a building. The impact showers the ground with crumbling rubble and Sylvain comes to an abrupt halt before something lands on his head and ends the fight before it’s begun.

The Beast is huge; a big, bulbous thing that’s more teeth than monster and its tongue lolls out of its mouth as it stares down at the two of them, breathing heavily, rumbling and growling. Its claws dig in to the groaning building, sending more shards of it cascading to the floor, and then it jumps, landing with another huge thud a few feet away from where Sylvain and Felix are standing with weapons at the ready. Sylvain has to spread his feet apart to gain back his balance when it lands, because it feels as though the entire earth is shaking, the sheer impact of it making him stagger.

They’ve fought larger Beasts than this, way more volatile and scarier Beasts than this, and yet they've always had battalions at their backs providing support and extra strength. Sylvain feels naked without them, without the professor shouting orders from somewhere in the distance. But then he looks over at Felix who's still at his side, already angled to fight, face set determinedly and suddenly, Sylvain has all the strength and motivation he needs.

“I’ll take the left side,” Sylvain says, and Felix snaps his head around to look at him. His eyes are burning; a startling amber against the drab grey architecture that surrounds them and the look only lasts a split second, but it feels as though Sylvain stares at him for an eternity before he nods sharply.

“Don’t die,” Felix says, making a break for the right side. “Or I’ll kill you,” he calls without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading and for all the lovely comments and kudos !! T_T  
as always, if you want to come talk to me about fire emblem come join me on twitter @ berriesmangoes  
also... honey,, you've got a big storm coming next chapter


	8. The Battle of Lightning.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i wasn't lying when i said a storm was coming

Adrenalin is coursing through his veins, his crest is alight and setting everything on fire, making his blood sing and his senses sharpen. His once stiff limbs are now nimble, quick and acting on pure reflex as he races around to the right side of the Beast, sword held defensively. Felix doesn’t spare Sylvain another glance – he doesn’t need to. He already knows and trusts that he’s doing the right thing.

The Beast stands in the centre of the town square, snarling and growling as rain beats upon its scaly back. Its head whips around trying to choose which of the two threats it wants to challenge first and Felix helps it hasten the decision when he drives his sword in to the back of its front leg. The Beast howls and lashes, lifting the injured leg to swipe in Felix’s direction, but he’s already moved and is bringing his sword down against the hardened skin of its side with a heavy arc of his blade.

But the Beast doesn’t even feel the damage this time – the sword, despite being Felix’s sharpest and deadliest, hasn’t so much as scratched the surface of its scales.

“Stay low and fast!” Felix calls, hoping that his voice has carried over the sound of rain and roaring Beast to Sylvain’s ears. They can do this alone if they play it safely, if they play it tactically. The Beast is large, too large to be as agile as it would need to be to catch up with Felix and Sylvain, so if they act quickly, they can take it down before it even realises what they're doing.

The howl of the Beast is all he needs to hear to know that Sylvain is already aware of this. Felix looks over in time to watch him dislodge his spear from the underside of the Beast’s belly, spraying the cobbles with Beast blood that quickly gets diluted by the rain.

Felix wastes no time in following suit, getting clear of the Beast’s front claws and exploiting its sluggish movement by taking another stab at its exposed underside. It bellows again and rears up on to its hind legs. Everything suddenly turns dark as the Beast’s form blocks what little sunlight peaks through the clouds, and Felix barely manages to dislodge his blade in time to avoid being hauled up with it.

With an earth shattering _slam_, the Beast brings its clawed fists down in to the ground. It caves and explodes in a fountain of wet dust and heavy rock and Felix loses his footing for a second, stumbling to the side. He gathers himself just in time to duck when the Beast spins around and sends its spiked, armoured tail swinging in his direction.

The house it hits doesn’t have that luxury, and Felix winces as the Beast’s tail sweeps through the flimsy brick and shatters the front face, windows and all, with a deafening _crash_. Glass and splintered brick fly in all directions, some of which finds its way to Felix’s face, cutting up his cheeks and hands that he’s brought up to protect his eyes. It’s a good thing that all of the town’s citizens have already evacuated this area, he thinks, because had anyone been still inside that house, they’d probably be dead by now.

While the Beast is distracted with removing its tail from the destroyed building, Felix works up the _thoron_ spell in his palms, ignoring the pain blossoming across his face and enjoying the crackle of lightning magic that licks against his skin. He watches the sparks reflect off of the relentless, sheeting rain with something of an exhilarated smile.

Breaths come ragged and rushed as he runs to find the face of the Beast. He feels the magic draw from his energy, making his entire body hum, until he releases it all, throwing the spell outwards with a thunderous _crack_. The Beast stills and starts convulsing under the spell in a brief moment of respite; the rainy weather aiding in the intensity and effectiveness of the spell, sending it travelling across the entire Beast's body.

Sylvain joins him at the front of the Beast, out of breath and soaked to the bone. He looks at Felix for a brief moment, and then at the Beast. Its head is low as it works through the shock, sparks jump and fly and dance off of its hunkering form and Sylvain looks as though he’s been struck himself when he suddenly jumps to and works up an idea. In a blur of movement, Sylvain gets a good grip upon his spear and stabs it, with impressive accuracy for such low visibility in the rain, in to one of the Beast’s eyes.

It comes alive again as though Sylvain has just flipped a switch, and it roars and howls in pain, writhing to shake Sylvain off of its face. The noise is almost unbearable – a hideous screeching sound that reverberates painfully in Felix’s skull with its proximity. Sylvain gets thrown slightly as his spear struggles to come free, and he drops to the ground with a heavy _splash. _Getting to his feet, he spares Felix another look, his wet hair falling in to his eyes with a small smile playing on his lips. Felix returns it, and follows it with a nod, a small gesture that speaks a thousand words, a gesture that says ‘_let’s finish it together’_. Sylvain’s smile widens further.

They’re a cohesive unit, a beast of their own devising, working together in tandem and hailing down attack after attack upon the Demonic Beast with unrelenting tenacity. With its sight limited even further, the Beast struggles to keep track of them, and they stick to its blind spot. Felix can’t think of anything other than the blade of his sword as he watches it hack through the putrid skin of the Beast. He uses the small glint of grey sunlight against the blade to centre himself, as though it’s a beacon in the darkness and focusses only on where it will slice next.

The Beast starts to slow, its roars and growls start to decrease in volume and change in tone as it works to conserve what energy it has left. The ground is slick with its blood and cold rain, and Felix almost slips in it multiple times as he attacks. Each and every swipe of the Beast’s claws gets progressively lazier and sloppier as time goes by. It gets in a few hits, Felix now sports more than a few gashes on his arms and across his back where the claws have grazed him and cut through his clothing on the occasion that he hasn’t quite managed to dodge in time, but he knows it’s nothing some healing magic can’t fix up. The Duke will at least owe them that _luxury_.

Now, it’s just a matter of holding out long enough to outlast the Beast. Waiting for it to be unable to hold itself up under all of the open wounds on its body, waiting for it to fall and succumb to its loss of blood.

Felix is entranced, thinking only of his next move, not sparing a single thought for what is going on around him. Victory looms before him, he’s sprinting towards it with each and every strike. Sylvain is at his side, twirling his spear like a baton and opening countless more gashes along the Beast’s body, wrenching and twisting it as he goes for maximum damage. They breathe in sync, following the Beast’s shadow, sticking close to each other, gasping through the pain of their own wounds.

And then he hears Sylvain shout “_Felix!”_ and his world comes screaming to a halt.

The Beast, in a last-ditch effort to take one of them down, has swung its clawed fist in a low, horizontal swipe, a swipe that is headed right for Felix.

That is, until Sylvain pushes him out of the way, spear held out in front of him ready to receive the attack in his stead. Felix hits the ground from the force of Sylvain’s shove and can only watch helplessly as Sylvain gets batted across the town square, hitting a building with a sickening _thud._

Felix’s vision turns red. His blood feels explosive. Sylvain’s form lays lifeless in a heap on the ground several feet away. Unmoving. Felix can feel the crackle of _thoron_ in his veins again as his anger takes a hold of his body and starts ruling his mind. The Beast roars again. It’s so close, that Felix can feel its breath, warm and rancid upon his skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sylvain’s spear still lodged in the Beast’s fist, sending pools of blood dripping to the floor. With his own steady hands, Felix raises his sword and feels the lightning spell emanate from his skin, through his soaked clothing, through his gaping wounds, and outwards in a flash and burst of power.

He directs it towards the Beast, runs at it as fast as he can manage. He can feel his throat and lungs protest under his furious shouts as he drives his sword through the Beast’s chest, channelling everything he has in to the wound he’s created. It doesn’t seem to do much, but Felix holds on when it rears and brings them both high in the air. He twists the sword with as much power as he can muster through the agony of dozens of oozing gashes, and cries out when the pain burns behind his eyes, white and hot.

The Beast flails again, and despite the muscles in his arms _begging_ him to let go, Felix holds tight. Desperation takes hold when the Beast still doesn’t relent, and Felix kicks his legs until his foot finds purchase against a protruding spike of the Beast’s shoulder. With the newfound strength that the vantage point presents, he lets one hand go and grabs for the holster at his thigh. He pries Sylvain’s dagger free and works up _thoron_ again, sending the lightning to the tip of the blade, he plunges it in to the Beast’s throat as many times as he can manage before his grip falters and he falls to the ground with a painful _thump _against the cobbles.

The Beast lets out one last sickeningly loud wail before stumbling. Felix manages to hold on to consciousness and ignore the new blossoming pain in his back and legs and arms long enough to crawl out of the way as the Beast falls unceremoniously to the ground in a bloody heap.

There’s a huge crack of lightning as the storm rages from the sky, honing in on the reflective metal of his sword and dagger still lodged in to the Beast’s chest. There’s a distinct smell of burning flesh as the lightning hits the monster and steam and smoke fills the air.

Rain batters Felix as he lies, panting, watching, waiting to see if it’ll move or stir. The smell of blood soon takes precedence; the Beast’s, Sylvain’s, his own, he’s not sure which, and it’s acrid and disgusting, making him feel as though he’s choking on it with every stolen breath.

The Beast’s own breathing is laboured. It still convulses with lightning and Felix stays, unmoving from where he’s fallen, waiting for the breathing to stop. It feels as though it takes forever – the Beast moans and groans and whimpers but Felix feels no sympathy. The noises are nothing more than reassurance that it’s repenting for the suffering it’s caused countless villagers; they’re sounds of victory.

Then it ceases. And the only sound he can hear is his own breath mixing with the rain and the distant sound of crying and screaming.

Felix lets out another shaky breath and turns quickly to find Sylvain, regretting the decision immediately when his entire body screams out in pain. He’s still lying lifeless against the building he was thrown against, and Felix ignores every protesting ache to crawl across the cobbles and go to him.

“Don’t be dead,” he says, dragging himself closer, searching desperately for the rise and fall of his chest. “Please don’t be dead,” he says again.

Rock and debris digs in to his knees, adding to the increasing number of injuries that he’s quickly losing count of, but he’s starting to feel numb. He’s losing too much blood to really be able to comprehend and process the pain any longer.

When Felix’s hands find the tattered clothing of Sylvain’s coat, he pulls himself upwards and drags Sylvain’s unconscious body in to his lap. Staring dumbly down at his peaceful face, Felix vaguely realises that he’s shaking. Sylvain is covered in blood – whose, Felix has no idea - probably his own - and it’s mixed in to his hair making it look a few shades darker than usual. Blood also covers the whole left side of his face where there’s a large gash running from his forehead down to his jaw. There are similar sized cuts running through the fabric of his clothing too, as well as his left arm and leg being bent at weird angles.

Felix rests his head against Sylvain’s chest, feels it rise slightly beneath his cheek and feels a small puff of warm breath against his neck.

“Thank you,” he breathes, and then relief floods over him, cold and heavy as he’s dragged into the depths of unconsciousness.

** ** **

The first thing he feels when he comes around again is a heavy weight on his chest. As though something is pressing down upon him, making it hard for him to breathe. Felix can’t even find the strength to check what’s causing the trouble, because his eyes feel too heavy to open, as though even that mere action is too taxing for his exhausted body to perform.

The second thing he feels is _better._ His limbs may ache, and he may feel as though he’s still unable to move, but largely, he feels a lot better than he did… however many hours ago it was that the Beast fell. The crux of the matter is, he _can_ still feel, so that can only be a good thing.

The sound of rain has ceased – he can only assume he’s now inside a building of some sort, because it also smells faintly of old wood and medicine and it’s distinctly warmer wherever he is. He’s been stripped down to his trousers and undershirt, but he’s not shivering, nor does he feel as though he needs to tuck himself any further in to the thick woollen blanket that lies over him. It almost feels warm enough to pretend he’s back at Garreg Mach.

_Sylvain_, his brain quickly interrupts and supplies, providing him with a distasteful image of his unconscious body and bloody face.

That’s all the motivation he needs to perform the arduous task of opening his eyes, and when he does, Nemesis stirs from his sleeping place on Felix’s sternum and gives him an inaudible squeak. Moving his legs is more difficult, not only because of the cat on his chest restricting any and all movement, but because it feels as though there are rocks tied to his ankles. His entire body feels heavy and lethargic, but he needs to know if Sylvain is OK.

“Ah! You’re awake,” a man’s voice comes from somewhere in the room. Felix doesn’t turn his head to find the owner of it, he’s too focussed on trying to get his legs to comply with the wishes of his brain.

“You shouldn’t try to move yet,” the voice comes again, slow and soft in an attempt to sound soothing. “The spell is still working on your body.”

Felix doesn’t say anything, just tries again to swing his feet off of the side of the bed, this time with marginal success – he’s managed to shuffle them slightly and prompt Nemesis to jump from his chest and on to the floor with a soft _meow_.

“I’d really advice against that, sir,” the man says, slightly more distressed this time. Felix upgrades his interaction with the nuisance to a grunt, and almost manages to move one leg completely over the side.

Sitting upright to accommodate for his new position is even harder. His ribs feel bruised and stiff, as though there is a rod along his spine keeping him rigidly in place. Eventually, after working up a sweat merely _thinking_ about moving, he gives up and resigns himself to his bedridden fate.

“Where’s Sylvain?” he tries instead, voice coming out hoarse and dry.

“Your friend? He’s OK. He’s in the next room over, recovering. You should get some more rest. The spell will have worked completely in an hour or so and you’ll be able to pay him a visit then. He was in significantly worse shape than you, as I bet you can probably imagine, so he’ll be out for a while longer.”

Felix swallows the lump in his throat and ends up coughing against the dryness in his mouth. The man rushes over and hands him a glass of water that he gladly accepts and drains entirely. His healer looks young, probably around Felix’s own age, and he looks as though he exists in a permanent state of anxiety; the inner corners of his eyebrows turned upwards and his lips turned downwards as though controlled by a puppeteer with invisible strings.

“The Duke would also like to see you, when you’re fit enough,” he says.

“Would he now?” Felix grits through his teeth. “That’s great news, because I’d quite like to see him too.”

“Oh, well, then that _is_ great,” the man says uncertainly, as though it’s a question.

So he’s probably been taken to the manor. By whom, Felix has no earthly idea, but he thanks the anonymous saviour in his mind, all the same. Judging by the fact that Nemesis is currently grooming himself on the floor, it possibly has something to do with that terrified woman from the tent, but there’s no way to be certain. He just hopes that all of his weapons have been transported along with him.

“I’ll come back and check on you in a little while,” the healer says before leaving with a quiet _click_ of the door.

Felix leans his head back against the soft pillow and sighs, staring up at the ceiling. There’s little to be done right now, other than to stew in his own thoughts and work himself up in to a frustrated bundle of anger and worry, so he closes his eyes and waits for sleep claim him once more.

It doesn’t come easily. It feels more like he’s desperately chasing it, rather than falling in to it, but time evidently passes as he dozes because after a while, his arms start cooperating more readily as the heaviness dissipates, enough for him to bring a hand to his face and brush his dampened hair out of his eyes. Another indeterminable amount of time passes and he can wiggle his toes. Not long after, he’s abandoned his sleepy stupor altogether and is sitting upright with his legs hanging over the bed.

Rather than living with what was most likely a few broken ribs, a shattered arm and enough gashes along his back to play a game of noughts and crosses upon, Felix only feels as though he’s been _mildly_ battered thanks to the work of what was probably the Duke’s personal healer. He makes a note to thank the man specifically later on, and not the Duke himself; he already has plenty of other words in mind for _that_ idiot and none of them are quite that generous.

From his new upright position, Felix can see that the room he’s in is small and full of clutter, as though it had been cleared solely to accommodate him. Sylvain’s wooden case, Nemesis, and to his great relief, his sword and dagger, are scattered across the floor. The weapons seem to have been cleaned, or at least the blood has been washed away by the rain before getting to this room, but even from this distance Felix can see that they’re greatly damaged. Divine intervention, in the form of that deciding lightning strike, has melted the hilts of both pieces. The sheer power and impact of the phenomenon has also bent them out of place.

Before Felix can even think about feeling sorry for his prized weaponry, he remembers that their state of disrepair is the reason he’s still breathing and quietly displaces his anger.

With immense effort, Felix gets to his feet. He feels like a training dummy when he eventually straightens – bruised and beaten and stiff, but he’s not going to be able to think of much else until he makes for certain with his own eyes that Sylvain is safe and well, so he puts one foot in front of another and forces himself to walk.

A door has never felt so heavy - it takes all of his dwindling strength to heave it open, and when he actually manages it, he’s panting from exertion. Nemesis follows at his heels as he shuffles down the corridor of the manor. The hallways are dimly lit, but Felix can still make out how extravagant and lavish the place is; the walls are decorated with pricey paintings; everything looks to have been touched with gold and other precious metals; and the carpeted flooring is definitely too expensive for Felix to be tracking his unwashed, bare feet along.

At the end of the corridor, Felix spots a window and notices that it’s dark outside, and he sends a quick prayer to whoever is listening that the professor and Dimitri don’t send out search parties when they fail to return home on time. Felix isn’t sure he can cope with the humiliation.

There are several doors along the corridor, each just as heavy-looking as the one he was once sleeping behind. Felix recalls the healer saying that Sylvain was staying next-door and hopes to the Goddess that the man hadn’t been generalising, because he’s not sure his arms are ready to open the other five-hundred doors that seem to extend along the rest of the hallway to find out. With a steadying breath, he yanks open the door next to his own and slips inside.

Sylvain is lying in a bed not to dissimilar from his own – the room looks just as haphazardly put together, except that there’s a wooden chair at Sylvain’s bedside, and the healer is occupying it. A dim green glow emanates from the healer’s hands as they hover over and work their way across Sylvain’s torso. Sylvain doesn’t move, just lies there lifelessly.

The blood is gone, Felix notices immediately. It’s no longer smeared over his face. But his hair, swept off of his forehead, still looks dark and clumped with it. The gash is gone too, seemingly faded in to nonexistence as though it had never been there to begin with.

Felix has seen Sylvain in worse conditions – they’ve been at war for over five years, after all. But there’s something about this whole situation that makes Felix’s stomach feel unsettled. Makes him feel as though it’s _his_ fault. His fault for not noticing the Beast swipe. His fault for not paying attention. His fault for even _being_ there. His fault for making Sylvain take the damage in his stead. It makes him want to shake Sylvain awake just to knock him unconscious again for risking his life for such a _stupid_ reason. 

“Oh, you’re up!” the healer startles when he hears the shuffling of Felix’s feet. The green glow dissipates from his fingers and he turns in his seat to look at Felix with something of an anxious smile. “I’ve just finished the last treatment, he should wake in a couple of hours.”

“Thank you,” Felix says, and he means it, because Sylvain no longer looks as though he’s on death’s door. The colour has returned to his cheeks and Felix can finally replace that awful image in his head of unconscious Sylvain with a new one.

“It’s us who ought to thank _you,_” the healer says quietly, putting his hands in his lap. “That Beast has caused nothing but devastation for the last two months.”

“Yes, well. It’s a good thing we were passing through,” Felix says tersely. “Others weren’t so lucky.”

“We tried,” he says, eyes trained downwards, “we’d sneak out with the butlers on their trips to the market to try and heal as many wounded as we could, but… there are so many, and the Duke.. He—you need to speak with him. You need to make him see sense.” The healer looks conflicted, but at the same time, resolute. The worry and anxiety melts from his face and he stares at Felix with eyes that plead.

“Don’t worry, I plan to,” Felix says.

The healer lets out a breath, “Good,” he says shakily, getting up from his seat. “Good,” he says again, more to himself. “Well, I’ll leave you alone. If he wakes up, come and get me. I’ll be in the room at the end of the corridor.”

Felix nods, and watches him leave before he claims the wooden seat. His legs thank him for finally sitting down again, and he all but falls on to the uncomfortable thing with an audible _creak_.

Sylvain doesn’t stir. Felix is almost glad, because if he were to wake up right now, he’s not quite sure what he’d find himself saying. His emotions are a tumultuous mess, more so than usual, as though someone is sitting inside of his brain banging kitchen utensils together so loudly he can’t even hear himself think. The Duke, Sylvain getting hurt on his behalf _again,_ the Beast, the Message – they’re all battling and shouting and drumming on his skull so hard it’s giving him a headache.

Felix decides not to even begin attempting to compartmentalise any of them. Instead, he watches Sylvain’s chest rise and fall as he breathes peacefully, and he imagines the healer’s magic thrumming beneath his skin, stitching together all of the damage.

Sylvain’s hand twitches from where it’s resting at his side, and Felix holds his breath for a moment, waiting for Sylvain to wake. But nothing happens.

Felix reaches out and takes his hand, feels the smooth skin beneath his thumb as he absentmindedly draws circles upon it. It feels warm, he notes with some sense of relief.

“Idiot,” he barely whispers, closing his eyes and lowering his head.

There’s movement again, and he snaps back to attention, expecting to find Sylvain awake and grinning, but he’s still fast asleep. Nemesis has jumped up on to his bed though, and walks shamelessly across Sylvain’s sleeping form with no regard for his wellbeing whatsoever, before settling down and curling up on his chest like he had done to Felix hours ago.

“Huh,” Felix’s lips quirk in to a small smile. “Guess your chivalry finally worked on someone.”

** ** **

Staring at Sylvain sleeping gets boring after about twenty minutes. He has no idea how people manage to stay at their loved ones bedside for hours upon hours without so much as leaving for a toilet break, because he’s only been there for a short while and he already feels as though he’s about to jump out of skin as a result of sheer boredom. There are only so many times he can count Sylvain’s intakes of breath before his leg starts to bounce and his mind comes alive again. Felix finds himself itching to leave the chair to stretch his newly strengthened legs, to test if the lack of pain he feels whilst sitting transfers to standing and moving.

In the end, he deems Nemesis a good enough companion to keep an unconscious Sylvain company, and slips back out of the door with much more ease and strength than when he had slipped in. He has no earthly idea what time it is, but he doesn’t care. The Duke will see him whether he’s awake and dressed in his office or not, he decides. If he can catch him unaware and embarrass him, even better.

Sylvain has made it clear that he should be the one to begin negotiations with the Duke, but Felix doesn’t think he’s in much of a position to argue right now, and he’d much rather get on their way back home as soon as he wakes. That’s why he’s walking, rather, shuffling, down the carpeted corridors in search for someone who can direct him to the man in question. He debates going back to his room to retrieve his sword, but then remembers that it’s destroyed and concludes that he can be just as intimidating without it.

It doesn’t take long for a member of staff to find him – a maid, dressed in full black and white frilled uniform, with her hair tied prettily up in a braided bun, stops and gapes at him from the end of the corridor for a moment.

“Oh, sir!” she says in a harsh whisper. It must be late, Felix thinks, if she’s endeavouring to keep her voice low. “You should, um, go back to bed, it’s rather late.”

“I need to see the Duke,” he says.

She looks around for a moment, as though she’s desperately trying to locate someone else to ease the burden of Felix’s demand from her and then looks back up at him with a wary smile. “Um, of course, sir, but, I’m not sure I can-- I’m afraid he’s asleep. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“No,” Felix says idly, making a note of the information that he _can_ sleep when his territory is in such a state of disarray. “It’s urgent.”

As if on cue, the healer emerges from his room having heard the noise at the end of the hall. He takes a look at Felix, and then the maid and he steps out, whispering something to her that makes her nod and scurry off in the opposite direction.

“I’ll take you to him,” the healer says, and Felix gives him a tight smile.

“Excellent."

Felix knows that Sylvain will probably give him hell for this when he comes around, but Felix is already waiting to give him hell about his unnecessary martyrdom, so he supposes it’ll all even itself out in the end.

The healer takes him to the end of the corridor before turning off and ascending a set of stairs. Felix body does _not_ thank him for this, but he uses the bannister to haul himself up without causing _too_ much pain for himself. On the new level, the healer takes him down another long corridor, one that’s even more extravagantly decorated, if that’s even possible. Felix frowns at each and every sculpture and piece of priceless art that he crosses, mind wandering to the villagers sleeping out on the street.

“Wait here, sir,” the healer says suddenly, holding out an arm to stop Felix’s determined march. Felix watches him walk to the end of the corridor, stopping outside the door that is guarded by a sleepy looking soldier. He says something to them that Felix can’t hear, and then lets himself inside.

The soldier outside the door spares Felix a glance, and offers him a respectful nod that Felix does not return, and then, just as quickly as he had disappeared, the healer comes back through the door and gestures for Felix to return the way they had come.

“He’s going to meet you in his office,” he says. “I’ll take you there.”

Felix decides that he quite likes this rebellious healer, and offers him his thanks once more as he follows him back along the corridor.

The office is large and spacious. The healer lets him in and tells him to sit and wait in one of the gaudy, blue velvet chairs that sits opposite a large mahogany desk. Felix complies and thanks him again before he leaves, gladly slipping in to the chair that is not as comfortable as it looks.

The office’s walls are lined with books, and the surface of the desk is clean, save for a few shiny trinkets, an ostentatious vase and a large tome that rests open on a page of text that’s way too small for Felix to decipher from where he’s sitting. Ultimately, it’s an office that is much too pristine to belong to someone dealing with such a crisis.

After a short while, the door to the office opens, and a tall man that’s obviously the Grand Duke of Itha walks in, looking haggard disorientated and a lot like he’s just been forcibly woken up. Felix smiles inwardly. He also looks a lot like Dimitri, he notes belatedly, with his blonde hair and his blue eyes. Only he’s a lot broader and wider set in the face, and seems to be attempting to grow a beard.

“Sir Fraldarius, I presume?” The Duke says, voice sleep logged and hoarse. He closes the door behind him, interestingly enough, opting not to bring any third party security in to the room with him, and takes his seat opposite Felix.

Felix’s stare is unwavering as he waits for the Duke to talk again, refusing to acknowledge his questions.

“On behalf of Itha, I would like to extend my thanks to you and Sir Gautier for your help in aiding us against the Demonic Beast,” he begins. Felix feels his blood getting warmer and clenches his fists in his lap. “Of course, we had the situation well under our control, but your help is valued, nonetheless.”

Felix’s eyebrow twitches involuntarily.

“Is there any particular reason that you needed to meet with me so urgently as to not wait until the morning?”

“Tell me,” Felix says, trying to keep his voice as even as he can. “Did Dimitri’s side of the family inherit all of the spine? Or did yours just fall out through your ass?”

If Sylvain were here, he’d probably make a sound similar to a strangled yelp, and then dutifully inform Felix that such a thing would probably be scientifically impossible, but he’s not here. So Felix continues, ignoring the Duke’s paled face and indignant sputters.

“You see, Sylvain and I are here on behalf of King Dimitri, here to open correspondence between yourself and the King in regards to the war effort, since, as I’m sure you’re aware, you’ve not so much as raised a dinner knife in aid of the Kingdom.”

“I can assure you that—”

“And, well, on our travels, we just happened to take the scenic route, you know, appreciate Itha in all of its glory. Only, when we got here, every town we seemed to happen upon was destroyed beyond repair, and every person we encountered was being fed upon by ravenous vultures, rotting under the rubble.”

The Duke winces, and Felix starts to smile, dry and vicious.

“So I guess my question is, when were you planning on requesting aid from the Kingdom in order to protect your people?”

“I already told you,” the Duke says, losing even more of his colour, “that we had the situation under control. We don’t need to get involved in this war nonsense, we can’t afford it.”

“Ah,” Felix says, “but you _can_ afford to keep this manor running quite well, can’t you? All those empty rooms, all that food and money being wasted on your pathetic, useless existence while your people starve and sleep on the freezing cobbles. Somehow that just doesn’t sit right with me. I’m sure prisoners would get better treatment.”

Colour starts to return to the Duke’s face, it starts blossoming in to an angry red as his lips twist uncomfortably. “You know nothing of our situation,” he says venomously.

“I’d say I’ve become pretty well acquainted with it by now,” Felix says, pointedly rolling one of his aching shoulders.

“And I’d say you’ve rather overstayed your welcome,” the Duke stands up abruptly and balls his fists at his side. “Come the morning, you can run back to your _King_ and tell him we don’t need his help, nor do we want to get involved in his petty spat with the Empire.”

“I can’t _believe_ you possess Blaidydd blood,” Felix spits. “You barely deserve to carry the name.”

“And you hardly live up to your father’s,” the Duke laughs, and Felix suddenly feels numb. “Traipsing around, threatening good men like a common mercenary.”

“The only reason I haven’t vaulted over this shit-ridden desk and kicked your sorry ass, is because Sylvain told me very specifically _not_ to,” he snaps, deliberately leaving out the part where it would probably hurt like hell, because that would definitely not sound as threatening. “But Sylvain isn’t here to stop me, because _your_ mess almost killed him.”

“It is regrettable that you came to such injury,” he says quite calmly for someone who has just been threatened. “However, that might teach you to refrain from meddling in matters that don’t concern you.”

Felix is pretty proud of how long he’s managed to last conversing with this man without physically maiming him. At this point, he’s convinced he deserves some kind of honorary medal, because the man is seriously asking for a fist or two to the gut.

“Matters like this _do_ concern me, you ignorant swine. They concern _you_ too, since you’ve somehow managed to convince the townspeople that they should rely on you for help and guidance. Can’t see how you managed it, mind you, when you can’t seem to see past your own nose.”

“I do not need lecturing from an uppity brat like you,” the Duke says, barking it like a teacher’s command.

“I beg to differ.”

“Get out of my sight,” he says suddenly. “I want you gone by the morning.”

“Oh, I will be gone by the morning,” Felix says, “and I’ll be journeying back to Garreg Mach, from where I will inform the King of your negligence, see that your title is renounced, and then see a team find its way back here to clean up your disastrous attempt at rulership. How you ever lasted more than a minute in charge of the Kingdom in Dimitri’s stead is nothing short of astounding.”

Felix doesn’t give the Duke any time to respond, he purposefully knocks the rather expensive looking vase off of the desk in a petulant display of anger, and storms out of the office. He immediately regrets the decision to be so forceful in doing so however, when his ribs complain loudly in his chest and it feels as though the air is sucked from his body. He feels as though he’s on fire, his blood is boiling and his hands are itching to hurt something, but he keeps himself cool and collected as he walks passed the healer and guard, sending them curt nods to let them know his business is concluded.

The healer sends him a bright and hopeful smile, and escorts him all the way back to the door of his room.

“I’m sorry,” he says before Felix opens the door, “but I couldn’t help but overhear your… conversation with the Duke. Are you really going to send for help?”

“Yes,” Felix says, “it’s what we do. Nobody should be left to fend for themselves against those Beasts.”

“I-I can’t thank you enough,” the healer says quietly. “For months now, we’ve been suffering under the Duke’s unreasonable demands. He refuses to take responsibility for anything, blames the people for not working hard enough. He fancies himself some kind of… some kind of—”

“Royal asshole?”

“For lack of a better term, yes.”

“Well, the _real_ King of Faerghus has way sounder morals than that bumbling _idiot, _that’s for sure,” Felix can’t believe he’s singing _Dimitri’s_ praises of all people, but this trip has been nothing short of unconventional since the moment they set foot out of the monastery, so he’s hardly surprised.

“Thank you,” the healer says. “You’ve saved us all in more ways than one.”

Felix nods once more and the healer bids him a good night, informing him that he’ll try to keep the Duke busy enough to earn them some extra time before they leave come the morning. “I’ll also send one of the maids to supply you with some provisions for the journey home,” he says, “you’ll also need some vulneraries to ward off the pain for the coming days.”

By the time Felix lowers himself down on to his bed, he’s exhausted again, and his throat feels dry from all the talking he’s done. When he’s sure that everything has righted itself within the manor, once he’s sure that everyone seems to have succumbed to sleep once more, he grabs his blanket and pillow and slips back out of his room and in to Sylvain’s.

Nemesis is still fast asleep on Sylvain’s chest, and Felix walks quietly to the wooden chair so as not to disturb either of their sleeping forms. He gets as comfortable as he can manage on the unforgiving seat, and wraps the blanket around himself, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of Sylvain’s chest until sleep claims him once again.


	9. The Biggest Fool in all of Fódlan Part 2.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain wakes up!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: 75% of this chapter was written while listening to caramelldansen on repeat

What wakes Felix isn’t the Duke ransacking the room and assassinating them in their sleep; it’s actually more of an incessant buzzing sound. A sound that he can’t yet focus on in its entirety, a sound that’s just dancing on the edge of his sleep-muddled, barely-conscious mind.

Felix doesn’t want to wake up, and he refuses to commit to the finality of waking in what he comes to remember is _not_ Garreg Mach monastery, and is actually the asshole Duke of Itha’s ridiculously expensive manor. More importantly, waking means he has to deal with the repercussions of last night’s outburst, and he’s not ready for that. Not when he’s _finally_ managed to find a comfortable sleeping position on this _Goddess_ forsaken, utterly useless, good-for-nothing, rickety wooden chair.

Waking also means he has to face the consequences of sleeping all night in aforementioned chair and Felix is definitely _not_ looking forward to working out the crick in his neck for the next three days. Right now, it doesn’t hurt, and that is because Felix is barely conscious. _But that buzzing noise_. It’s pulling him out of sleep whether he likes it or not. It’s dragging him kicking and screaming and complaining all the way.

“…_35 vulneraries to save the soldier’s life…”_

Slowly, his mind is coming around. It’s taking its time, it’s trudging through the darkness like its knee deep in mud.

_“…They best a beast and chug one down in times of woe and strife…”_

The buzzing is becoming clearer. It’s no longer a buzzing sound. More of an incessant, irritating mumble.

_“…Now let’s check the stock and count the lot, that’s 34 vulneraries remaining…”_

“Shut up,” Felix mumbles, voice groggy and short. He’s more or less awake now, but he keeps his eyes closed because opening them means fully committing to consciousness. His head is tilted to the side, it’s resting against the pillow he’s propped up against the wall – miraculously, it’s held all night – and his legs are pulled up to his chest. Overall, he feels about as limber as a crumpled piece of parchment.

“Oh! You’re awake! Finally. You know, I started at 99 vulneraries again because I lost count of--”

“_Shut up_, _please_,” Felix closes his eyes harder, hoping that it’ll also stop him from being able to hear.

“Nice to see you alive too, Felix. Did you stay here all night? That’s so sweet. Were you worried about me?”

“For no good reason it would seem.” Felix resigns himself to his fate and moves his head, wincing when it feels as though he hasn’t moved a limb in over four years, rather than four hours. When he opens his eyes, Sylvain is sitting upright in bed; Nemesis is settled on his lap, purring contently as he scratches behind his ears. He looks ten times better than he had done before Felix had succumbed to sleep; his hair is still a mess, but his eyes are bright and he looks animated and full of life.

Seeing Sylvain awake, and more importantly, _alive_, makes Felix feel as though he’s singlehandedly ended the war himself. Contrary to his carefully orchestrated front, he’s hit by such a feeling of immense relief, that it almost bowls Felix over entirely. It starts in his stomach and unfurls rapidly, snaking and branching up to his chest and throat, tightening them and making it hard to breathe correctly. It passes, and eventually settles behind Felix’s eyes, making them sting, threatening to spill out and over his cheeks.

“Looks like I won,” Sylvain says with a smile directed at the pile of orange fur.

Felix stretches his legs - his knees click audibly and he grimaces. “Hm, if I recall correctly, you actually said you’d win his affections _before_ we got to Itha. He didn’t start liking you until a couple of hours ago.”

“Technicalities,” Sylvain waves him off. “Maybe I should get myself thrown against buildings more often. Might earn me some more points.”

“Maybe not,” Felix scowls. “You ever do something that idiotic and reckless again and I’ll kill you. For real this time. Like, you’ll _stay_ dead. Permanently.”

Sylvain’s smile never wavers, “It’s not idiotic if it’s to save you.”

That _should_ make Felix feel some kind of special way, and had it been said after any other mundane or non-life threatening sacrifice, Felix might have been besieged by all manners of complicated emotions. As it stands, he only feels one: anger.

“Yes it is,” he says. “You could have _died_.”

“Better than _you_ dying.”

Felix stares at him incredulously. “Not this again.”

Sylvain sighs and leans back, hitting his head lightly against the bed’s headboard with a slight wince. “OK, let me have it then. Start the lecture, Professor Felix. I’ll try to pay extra attention this time.”

“This isn’t funny, Sylvain,” Felix says, leaning forward in his seat. “Do you think you’re the only one that cares whether one of us lives or dies? We both made that promise.”

“Felix—”

“Why is it always _you_ trying to throw your life away at my expense? Do you think it’ll make me happy? To lose you like I’ve lost everyone else?”

He’s not sure why he’s making this such a big deal, or why he’s raising his voice. Felix has had this conversation with Sylvain before, numerous times, in varying degrees of seriousness - Sylvain likes to throw Felix out of danger during battles like it’s an untreated affliction – but this time has shaken him. The image of Sylvain’s lifeless face, bruised and bleeding in his arms, is not an image that will just disappear overnight. The feeling, though mostly replaced with relief, still lingers, haunting the back of his mind like a prophetical shadow. _The next time could be worse,_ the shadow taunts. _Next time he could die._

Sylvain looks conflicted, like he should be saying something, only the guilt of Felix’s accusation is holding him back.

“You’re a moron,” Felix all but shouts. Nemesis doesn’t seem to appreciate the noise; he jumps down from Sylvain’s lap soundlessly and stalks over to Sylvain’s pile of damp clothes to sleep instead. “Do you know how horrible it is to watch you throw yourself in to danger to take my hits and then be left to pick up your broken pieces afterwards? Do you know how _awful_ it feels to watch you suffer through injuries that should have been mine?”

“It’s what you do, Felix—”

“It’s not ‘What you do’, Sylvain!” Felix stands and ignores his cracking joints. He’s way too heated to pay attention to what his body is telling him. “Staying _alive_ should be ‘_What you do’.”_

“It _is_ what you do,” Sylvain says louder, sitting upright again with a frown as though accepting the challenge. “It’s what you do when you _love_ someone, OK?”

“Well that’s nice for you,” Felix sneers, feeling his chest constrict painfully. “But forgive me if I don’t quite get why your ridiculous infatuation with someone else makes you so ready to jump in front of spears and Beasts for _me.”_

Sylvain’s face shifts through three distinct emotions. _Anger_ \- his eyebrows furrow and his eyes are dark up until Felix finishes his sentence. _Surprise_ \- his eyebrows recede and arch over his eyes and his mouth opens slightly as though he can’t quite find words. And finally, he ends up settling on_ hilarity_ – he starts laughing, doubling over as though Felix is standing before him reciting jokes in a jester’s hat.

“What the fuck is so funny?” Felix snaps.

Sylvain can’t stop laughing, it looks as though tears are forming in the corners of his eyes. “Oh, _Goddess_, this hurts,” he wheezes, grasping at his injured side.

“Then stop it.”

“Oh my—I _can’t_,” he laughs harder and Felix almost reaches up to check he isn’t actually wearing a jester’s hat.

Felix glares at him from outside the joke, feeling increasingly more agitated as the seconds tick by. He feels like an explosion waiting to happen. Each twitch of his eyebrow brings the countdown closer to zero.

“Give you an inch and you’ll run a mile up Misunderstanding Mountain before I’ve even blinked,” Sylvain manages to say once his laughs have calmed somewhat. He wipes away a tear - whether it’s from laughing, or the pain of laughing, Felix isn’t sure. Probably an irritating mix of both.

Felix does not find any of this funny. In fact, he’d endeavour to say it’s rather the opposite. At least, that’s what his wrangled heart is telling him as it beats erratically inside his chest; battered and bruised and hollow. Sylvain may be the injured one, but suddenly, Felix feels as though he might be in more pain.

“It’s not funny,” he says, lowering his voice and his gaze to the floor. It’s the calm before the storm.

“No you’re right, it’s not. It’s _hilarious_,” Sylvain wheezes again, but it sounds different this time. Darker, drier, bordering hysterical.

“It’s not!” Felix explodes. It’s been a long time coming, but the emotions no longer have an outlet to escape in to: the bottle he’s kept them in for so long has just smashed; the box he kept them locked tightly inside has just cracked and splintered; and the voices inside his head that tell him to _Keep it to yourself_, have vanished and relinquished their hold. “It’s not, because you have no _idea,” _his voice is barely a whisper. “You have no idea how it feels to watch you throw yourself in to danger for me, to get hurt for me, almost _die _for me, over and over again, and then talk of it as though it’s no big deal. You have no idea how it feels, because you’re OK loving someone else, and I’m stuck loving _you,_ and it’s—”

Sylvain stopped laughing a while ago.

Felix stopped breathing a while ago.

He was too late to stop himself, but he’s managed to catch himself before he can inflict any more damage. The dam hasn’t as much as broken as it has _disintegrated. _Swallowing everything up in its path in a tidal wave of regret. All he can do is stand and watch the carnage unfold upon Sylvain’s face, watch his eyes widen, feel his own body go numb as he drowns.

It doesn’t feel freeing to have said it. It doesn’t feel liberating, or like anything has been lifted from his shoulders. In fact, he feels heavier than he ever has. As though he carries the entirety of their ruined friendship in a weighted coffin upon his back, and now he has to lug it all the way back to Garreg Mach to bury it forever.

Felix turns to leave. He has to get out of this room before it suffocates him, before the knife that is Sylvain’s telling silence twists any further in to his gut. He’s not even sure where he’d go – the Duke probably has guards stationed all around the manor waiting to ‘teach him a lesson’ of some kind. Maybe that’s what he needs to rid himself of this numbness; a good beating.

Sylvain’s hand tightens around his wrist and stops him from reaching the door handle. His grip is like an iron cuff – unrelenting and heavy. Felix doesn’t turn to face him. He keeps his swimming vision trained upon the wood of the door as though it’ll take pity on him and open by itself so he can run away.

“Felix,” he says softly, “what did you just say?”

The knife twists painfully.

“_Felix.”_

“Please don’t make me say it again,” Felix says and he hates how desperate he sounds.

“Did you mean it?”

Felix scoffs and tries to jerk his wrist out of Sylvain’s grasp, but he’s holding on too tightly. “Of course I _meant_ it. What, you think I say things like that to—”

Sylvain pulls himself out of the bed using Felix as an anchor. Felix stumbles backwards slightly and in to Sylvain’s chest. They’re both unsteady – Sylvain is obviously feeling about as strong on his feet as a new born lamb after his healing treatments, and Felix feels as though a light breeze could sweep him off of his. Luckily, or, unluckily, Sylvain keeps them steady somehow by putting his free hand on Felix’s arm.

He can’t turn around. He can’t look at Sylvain. Mostly because he doesn’t want to, but also partly because he doesn’t want to see his face laden with pity and sympathy when he tells him he doesn’t feel the same way and that ‘nothing has changed’ when it very evidently _has._

“Felix,” he says for what feels like the hundredth time, “how long?”

“How long _what?_”

“How long have you felt that way? Please don’t say longer than ten seconds.”

“I don’t know.” Felix looks down again, wishing the ground would swallow him up. “Six years or so.”

Sylvain makes a strangled sound and his grip slackens on Felix’s wrist for a moment, long enough for him to wrench it free. Sylvain doesn’t try to reach for it again. Felix isn’t sure if he wants him to.

“Save me your pity, Sylvain. You don’t have to say anything. If you’re better, let’s just go.”

Felix makes another attempt at the door, but Sylvain catches his arm, using Felix’s momentum against him to spin him around. When he catches Sylvain’s eye, it doesn’t hold the emotion he’d expected to see; his face is inscrutable, but if pity lies beneath his features, it’s extremely well hidden. He can’t hold the gaze for too long; it feels as though the weight of it might crush him.

“Felix, I—I can’t—”

Felix takes an automatic step back, putting some distance between them. “I told you to save it. It’s fine, just let me go.”

Nothing is fine. Felix actually feels as though fighting the Demonic Beast again would end better than this shipwreck of a conversation, but he doesn’t want Sylvain to feel _bad_ on account of his slip up. It’s nobody’s fault but his own that he feels this way.

He wrestles himself free again, which seems to wake Sylvain up from whatever entranced daze he’s in.

“Woah, hey! No, Felix. Who exactly do you think I’ve been talking about being in love with all this time?”

Felix wishes another strike of lightning would burst through the roof to kill him right about now. At least death would be instantaneous. Although, he'll probably only have to wait another ten minutes or so for his heart to fail with how fast it’s hammering inside his chest.

“I told you, I don’t know or care. That’s your business,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Oh Goddess, Felix, you really are something else.”

“OK, you don’t have to ridicule me,” Felix snaps. “A simple ‘no’ would suffice.”

“It’s _you,_ Felix. I’m in love with _you_!”

_Oh._

It feels similar to being punched in the gut, and Felix stops as though the air has been knocked from his body. He’s not sure if he’s heard those words correctly. Maybe there’s someone at the monastery whose name sounds an awful lot like ‘You’, because Sylvain can’t possibly mean what Felix _thinks_ he means. And yet, the words hang in the air, heavy and awkward, and no matter how hard Felix’s mind works to purposely misconstrue them, they’re too definite to misunderstand.

“I throw myself in to danger for _you_ because I can’t bear to see you get hurt either, OK? I mean, I thought I was flirting with you pretty obviously, but you seem to have a skull thicker than a—”

“Stop making fun of me.”

Sylvain snorts out a laugh and shoots a hand to cover his mouth and conceal it. “Sorry,” he mumbles from behind his fingers. “It’s just, I’ve confessed to you _twice_ now in the space of ten minutes, and you still don’t believe me. I’m about to lose my mind.”

Sylvain reaches a hand out. Felix looks down at it lingering between them like an invitation. It’s trembling slightly, but then, so is Felix.

Felix can count on one hand the amount of time’s he’s held Sylvain’s. They’re almost always small moments where he’s forgotten himself and reached for him without realising until it’s too late, or moments where Sylvain has taken his to lead him somewhere without knowing what it means to him. The last intentional time he can remember had been during their fiasco with the bandits. Now, as he places his hand _deliberately_ in to Sylvain’s outstretched one, he can’t help but feel as though he’s missed a thousand more opportunities to feel this safe and content.

Felix watches Sylvain’s hand fold over his own as he intertwines their fingers together in a complicated looking pattern. Sylvain smiles at him; it’s tentative and it’s small, but it’s a smile nonetheless. Felix has never seen Sylvain act so cautious and uncertain around someone he’s courting. It calms him somewhat.

“Do you believe me now?” he asks.

Right now, Felix thinks as he looks in to Sylvain’s hopeful eyes, he’d probably believe him if he told him the sky was red. But he can’t find words, so he opts for a soundless nod.

“What happens now?” Felix asks, the words getting stuck in his throat, leaving his lips more a murmur than a question.

“I don’t know,” Sylvain says, tearing his eyes away from Felix’s to look down at their joined hands. “I didn’t actually think this would ever happen. I mean, I’ve thought about it. _A lot. _I’ve thought of, uh, lots of things actually, but that’s—”

Felix surges forward to cover Sylvain’s lips with his own. It’s nice, partly because it gets Sylvain to finally stop talking, but mostly because he’s wanted to do it for so long that it almost feels unreal to be living through it. To be _able_ to kiss Sylvain without sacrificing anything, to know that the feeling, the longing, is reciprocated.

Sylvain stumbles backward slightly. Felix catches him with a sturdy arm around his back and pulls him closer. The world could be exploding, but Felix probably wouldn’t notice. All he can feel, smell and taste, is Sylvain. And it might not be a pleasant feeling, because Sylvain smells and tastes like he’s died four times over, but when Sylvain hums against his lips and gains his balance enough to wrap his own arms around Felix’s waist to deepen the kiss, he decides he doesn’t care.

Felix brings his own hands to Sylvain’s face and runs his thumb over what he knows was once the bloodied gash upon his cheek, relieved to know it’s still perfectly healed and soft. Sylvain sighs and tilts his head in to the touch. Felix can feel him smiling against his mouth.

“I could happily die right about now,” Sylvain says, resting his forehead against Felix’s to catch his breath.

“You’d better not.”

“Oh, right, yeah. No dying because you love me, got it.”

“Poor decision making on my part, really,” Felix murmurs, moving his hands to settle at the nape of Sylvain’s neck. “And yours, now that I think about it. What about your father?” Sylvain makes a face as though the last thing he wants to be talking about while he’s kissing Felix is _his father,_ but Felix has to know. “Won’t he be pissed at the prospect of no heir?”

Felix has already given up on the whole ‘living-up-to-expectations’ front. It’s not as though he has any family left alive to prove himself to anyway, but Sylvain’s father can be callous. He’d renounced Miklan and cast him out for his lack of crest without so much as a second thought; Felix doesn’t want to be the cause of tension between Sylvain and what remains of his family.

“All the more reason to kiss your brains out,” Sylvain says, and recaptures Felix’s lips with his own. It feels just as explosive the second, third and fourth time as it does the first. Felix doesn’t think kissing Sylvain will ever stop feeling like magic. Because that’s the only way he can describe how it makes him feel – the hum of energy pooling in his stomach, making his blood sing, and making him feel as though he could level buildings and bring down armies.

“That’s disgusting,” Felix manages between breaths.

Sylvain hums in agreement, somehow managing to pull Felix even closer against him, hands bunched in his wrinkled shirt as though he’s holding on for dear life. Felix responds in kind, knotting his fingers in the still bloodied tangles of Sylvain’s hair. He tries not to let it escalate too extremely – Felix knows that Sylvain is still recovering, still working through stiffness and pain, no matter how hard he tries to conceal the fact – but there are years of longing and want attached to each and every meeting of their lips, to every desperate curl of fingers in clothing, to every shaky exhale.

When they finally break a while later, breathing as though they’ve run a mile uphill, Sylvain sits himself down on the bed again, knees giving out before he can properly lower himself. He looks laboured and tired, but he doesn’t stop smiling, and he doesn’t let go of Felix’s hand. For a moment, Felix just stands there, looking at their hands still connecting them from their differing positions in a state of disbelief before he finally comes around and joins Sylvain on the edge of the bed.

“I was being serious earlier,” Sylvain says, nudging his side. “I don’t care what my father thinks. I’d give up the entire world for you, Felix.”

“That’s hardly fair for the millions of other people inhabiting it,” Felix says, feeling the tips of his ears burn under the overwhelming affection. Felix hopes that the squeezing of Sylvain’s hand will convey how much that means to him, and how he’d probably do the exact same thing in a heartbeat.

Sylvain rests his head on Felix’s shoulder and rubs his thumb over the surface of Felix’s hand. “That’s their problem.”

“I suppose it is,” he says. “Oh, and this probably isn’t the best time to bring this up, but since we’re on the topic of problems, we kind of have one.”

Sylvain lifts his head from Felix’s shoulder, and Felix suddenly regrets deciding to bring up the whole Duke fiasco, because now his shoulder is cold and Sylvain-less, and that is way more of a pressing problem than whatever trouble he’s gotten them in to.

“Please tell me you didn’t.”

“Uh, well, that depends on what it is you think I’ve done.”

“Please don’t tell me you talked to the Duke without me.”

“OK, I won’t tell you.”

“_Felix.”_

“You were asleep and I was bored,” he says lying back on the bed to avoid Sylvain’s accusatory glare. “Also, you’ll be relieved to know that I didn’t punch him. Not even a little bit. I really, _really_ wanted to. But I didn’t.”

Sylvain sighs and lies down next to him. “You managed a conversation without resorting to violence? Wow, Felix, I’m actually kind of impressed.”

“If verbal threats don’t count as violence, then yeah, you’re right, and thank you.”

“Guess I spoke too soon,” Sylvain laughs at the ceiling. “Come on then, let me have it. How much shit are we going to have to wade through to get home?”

Felix tells Sylvain all about the conversation with the Duke, and, because he thinks it might earn him some points and soften the blow, the conversation with the healer too. Sylvain doesn’t interrupt, he just lies back on the bed with his hand still solidly in Felix’s as though it’s been surgically attached, nodding and humming until the story is over.

“Damn, Felix, you could have at least waited until I’d bathed,” he says after a moment of silence in which Felix had been sure he’d erupt in to some kind of lecture. Maybe it _was_ the right time to tell him; he seems too blissful and calm to be capable of anger right now.

“There’s nothing stopping you from bathing right now,” Felix says. “That is if you don’t mind being assassinated in the bath.”

“Hmm, exciting _and_ tempting,” Sylvain grins. “Maybe we should bathe_ together_ instead? Just to be safe.”

Felix chokes on air and elbows him in the side. “Shut up,” he grumbles.

“Honestly, I don’t think I would have said anything differently to the Duke,” he says, reverting back to a more serious tone. “Although, I might have held off on the detailed outline of our plan to renounce him. We’re going to have to hope that his staff and the town’s people hate him enough not to follow his orders until we get back. Though, I guess if he were planning something really reckless, he’d have attempted to murder us in our sleep already.”

“We have a few allies,” Felix reminds him. “The healer said that he was gathering supplies for us and would keep the Duke occupied long enough for us to get out safely.”

“Small mercies,” Sylvain says as he heaves himself back upright. “_Goddess_, healing magic _aches._ You’d think they’d have found a way to make it more pleasant by now.”

“Your arm and leg were literally pointing the wrong way,” Felix informs him, trying extremely hard not to conjure the mental image.

“Really? Wow.” Sylvain stretches his hand out in front of him, as though looking for the evidence. “I guess that’s why it feels as though I’ve just endured a twelve hour training session with _you_.”

“Training with me isn’t _that_ bad.” Felix rolls his eyes and joins Sylvain in sitting upright.

He feels on edge, simply sitting around, waiting for something to happen. They need to get moving, to get out of this manor and get a head start on the Duke before he pulls his fingers out of his ass and actually tries something. Felix can’t imagine he’ll just let them simply sail merrily back to Garreg Mach to ruin his life without retaliating. But they can’t leave until they have their supplies. Frustratingly, there’s nothing to do _but_ wait.

“It is,” Sylvain insists, “it’s like wrestling ten bears.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t get knocked on your ass so often if you actually paid attention.”

“Hmm, but that’s so hard. You look really hot when you’re fighting. It’s distracting.”

“You’re insatiable,” Felix scoffs, but suddenly a lot of things start to make sense and he considers that maybe _he_ might actually be the Biggest Fool in all of Fódlan. “Is this how it’s going to be from here on out? You turning every conversational topic in to an excuse to relentlessly flirt?”

“Felix, Felix, Felix,” Sylvain shakes his head. “I was already relentlessly flirting with you, you were just too dense to notice.”

“I guess I walked right in to that one,” he mumbles.

Sylvain shuffles closer to Felix and knocks their knees together. “You’re going to have to get used to it,” he says, grinning wide. “It’s a long way back to the monastery.”

Felix turns his head to look at Sylvain and realises that he’s so close that their noses almost touch, a revelation that no longer startles him, or renders him immobile. Instead, it makes his entire body smile.

“Is it too late to take back everything I said?” Felix tries, glancing subtly down at Sylvain’s lips.

“Yes,” Sylvain says quickly and closes more of the distance, mumbling against Felix’s lips. “You’re stuck with me forever.”

Felix ignores the warmth of Sylvain’s breath against his mouth and wrinkles his nose. “Goddess, you stink. I can’t wait to throw you in the river again.”

“I’m taking you down with me,” Sylvain sing-songs, and stops a breath away. There’s a short silence; it’s loaded with thousands of unspoken confessions like _Spending forever with you sounds too good to be true_, and a thousand more _I love yous_ but Sylvain breaks it to ask, “Can I kiss you again?”

“Of course. You don’t have to ask, idiot,” Felix grumbles.

“Mm, but I like it,” Sylvain whispers, and then Felix loses the capacity to think.

** ** **

An indeterminable amount of time later – Felix isn’t sure how long, because when he’s kissing Sylvain, there’s not much else he’s able to find the strength to do – they part long enough to gather their effects. Felix has just finished up presiding over the impromptu funeral for his swords and sorting through their ruined clothes - there’s no way they’ll be able to wear the majority of them. They’re completely spoiled with blood and shredded by Beast claws.

“You can probably get your father’s sword fixed,” Sylvain offers in condolence, “but I think that dagger is well and truly obliterated.”

He’s right. It’s melted beyond recognition. The orange gems are probably still smashed inside the Beast’s chest and the hilt looks more like an experimental metalwork art piece than what he once knew as an intricately carved piece of weaponry.

Sylvain is offering to buy him a new one on the way home when the knock startles them. Felix snaps his head around to the door and every muscle in his body tenses as the healer slips inside.

“Oh good,” he says with an audible sigh of relief that all but screams, _Thank the Goddess you’re still alive. _“You’re awake.”

“Thankfully,” Felix says, and allows his body to calm down now that the possibility of danger has diminished. “What time is it?”

“A little after six,” the healer says, closing the door behind him as gently as he can manage. He’s carrying a large basket on one arm and looks as though he hasn’t slept a wink. Felix wonders what kinds of magical strings he's spent his night pulling just to send their annoying selves back home to Garreg Mach in one piece. Sylvain joins Felix at his side and extends a hand out towards the healer.

“You healed me, right?” Sylvain asks. When the healer nods, Sylvain looks down at his extended hand and then to the healer again, as though prompting him to take it. The poor man looks as though he’s just been presented with Fódlan’s greatest mystery, but eventually, he seems to catch on and shakes Sylvain’s hand. “Thanks a lot,” Sylvain says. “We’ll repay you in kind by sorting this whole mess out.”

“I already told your friend,” the healer says, looking to Felix, “you’ve helped Itha more than you know.”

“Even so,” Sylvain says with an easy smile. “Felix informed me that I was in pretty bad shape. That must have taken some real hard work and I really appreciate it.”

“It was no trouble,” the healer goes red, stumbling over his words and Felix laughs because Sylvain’s charm is so effortless and intoxicating that he can only sympathise. Luckily, Felix has been in such close proximity to it for so many years, that he’s developed an immunity. Sort of.

“OK,” Felix says, swiftly re-directing the conversation before it gets embarrassing for everyone involved. “How are we getting out of here?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” the healer says. He sets the basket down on the bed and opens it, pulling out two sets of clothes. “I borrowed these from the butlers. The trousers might be a little small, since, um, you’re quite tall.” He glances up at Sylvain when he says that, and then back down to the basket. “But the shirts should fit fine.”

Felix takes the uniform – it’s not too dissimilar to what they’re already wearing, albeit a lot cleaner– a white shirt and black trousers. From what Felix can feel, the material is a lot thinner though, made more to look good than be durable. Still, he’s not complaining when it’s the first fresh change of clothes he’s had in almost a week.

“I also got the kitchen staff to make you some travel meals; sandwiches, breads and buns. I don’t know how long you’re journey is going to be, but hopefully they’ll last you a few days at least.”

Sylvain thanks him again, and the healer turns another few shades of red darker.

“Um, I’ve also fixed you up some vulneraries. You should still experience some aching and pain, but if you take these every couple of hours, you shouldn’t feel a thing.”

“Fantastic,” Sylvain groans. “My whole side still feels like it’s broken.”

The healer clears his throat. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll go and perform the Duke’s regular health check and he should be sufficiently distracted for you to just walk right out of the front doors.”

“Won’t there be any resistance from the guards?” Felix asks, raising a sceptical brow.

“Oh, no,” he says simply. “To be completely frank, there’s not a single person in this manor who cares whether the Duke lives or dies.”

Felix snorts. “I can’t even begin to imagine why.”

“I’ve talked with everyone I can find, so you shouldn’t run in to any trouble within the manor walls,” the healer says, “but once you leave the manor, the Duke could have bought any number of people to deal with you. You’ll have to stay on your guard.”

“We expected as much,” Felix tries to reassure him. With the vulneraries, it shouldn’t be too much of a struggle to take out a few untrained assassins should they encounter any such inconvenience. Even without a decent weapon, Felix isn’t too worried. They’ve dealt with significantly worse, and Felix is pretty sure that the Duke isn't expecting them to have _sailed_ all the way here.

“Thank you,” Felix says again for the umpteenth time. “If you ever find yourself out of work, there’s plenty of need for talented healers like yourself in Garreg Mach. You’ll be welcome there.”

“I appreciate the offer,” he says with a slight bow of his head, “but I’d like to stay here to help those in need.”

“Fair enough.”

“When you’re ready to leave, just knock on my door. We’ll set the plan in motion.” He leaves as silently as he had entered, and they waste no time in shoving everything they’re intending to keep in to Sylvain’s wooden case.

“I told you it would come in handy,” Sylvain says smugly, throwing the remains of their spoiled food in to the corner of the room. He replaces it all with the goods from the basket, but quickly finds that free space is dwindling when his attempts to fit everything inside quickly devolve in to the solving of a puzzle instead. The kitchen staff have been especially generous, much to the delight of Felix’s stomach. The food is still warm to the touch and it takes all of his willpower not to devour it all before they’ve even left.

“Sylvain,” Felix says, patting him on the shoulder, observing his struggle with the case with a sympathetic eye. “Do you _really_ need to keep the tea set?”

“I find it hard _very _to believe you love me when you ask questions like that, Felix.”

“I find it quite hard to believe myself when you’re seriously debating whether or not an ugly tea set takes precedence over _sustenance._” Felix also finds it hard not to smile whenever Sylvain says the word _love_, but he keeps that to himself because he’s not sure he could endure the embarrassment of letting Sylvain know about the way his stomach flips like a love-sick teenager every time he so much as looks in his direction.

“I can squeeze everything in if we carry the vulneraries in our pockets,” he says, ignoring Felix’s disdain for the atrocious crockery.

“If you must,” Felix sighs.

Once they’re changed and somewhat better off than they had been waking up, Felix grabs Nemesis and puts him in the basket to escort him safely out of the manor - much to the cat’s horror. For a cat that had absolutely no trouble sleeping aboard an unsteady rowboat, he’s kicking up an awful fuss at spending a few minutes in a basket.

“Behave, Nemesis Fraldarius-Gautier,” Sylvain says, trying to hush the unhappy cat noises erupting from inside the woven wicker.

Felix makes a face, “Oh Goddess, that poor cat. You can’t call him that. That’s _awful_.”

“What? No it’s not. That’s our son you’re talking about.”

“It’s _cruel. _No child deserves a name like that.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing he can’t understand what the hell we’re saying, because the name stays.”

“Don’t blame me if he starts hating you again.”

“Don’t worry about it. If he takes after his father, then I’ve already won his heart.” Sylvain grins very pointedly at Felix and earns himself an eye-roll.

Feeling more like he’s about to attend a casual ball rather than row all the way home in an extremely slow-paced race against time, Felix knocks on the healer’s door and only waits an astonishing three seconds before it’s hauled open.

“You’re ready then?”

Sylvain looks at Felix with a smile before saying, “As ready as we’ll ever be.”


	10. Homeward Bound.

Sylvain won’t say this is the best day of his entire life, because he knows he has a whole lifetime of days lying in waiting to surpass this one. And he also almost died, so that docks a few points, if not only for the way it still makes his legs ache terribly.

Felix is leading the way through the manor, checking over his shoulder every three seconds like he’s expecting the Duke to leap out from one of the closed doors brandishing a kitchen knife. Nemesis is snarling and growling from inside the basket, trying to dig his way through the wicker with the ferocity of a rabid dog. Sylvain is hobbling along amicably and smiling like an idiot.

A guard nods at them, Sylvain guesses it’s meant to be some kind of sign of silent support and nods back. Everyone seems to be nodding, in fact. Sylvain’s starting to feel a little dizzy with how often he has to bob his aching head to return the gestures of every guard they pass. A few of them spare odd glances at the cat basket. Sylvain thanks the Goddess that none of them are curious enough to stop them and ask about it. Should they open the lid, Sylvain would most _definitely_ witness the second coming of Nemesis.

The manor is lit sparingly by candlelight. Given the early hour, the sun still hasn’t found its way through the windows entirely, and it makes Sylvain feel like a teenager again, sneaking around the monastery after hours, getting up to no good.

As they slip down staircases and wind through corridors, Sylvain almost trips over a few carefully concealed corner tables but he’s too content to curse them out. He’s just kissed Felix, and Felix likes him – no – _loves_ him back and nothing short of a spontaneous plague sweeping through Fódlan and annihilating all human life will wipe the smile off of his face.

The foyer is suspiciously empty when they finally reach it; not even a sleepy-looking guard stands watch by the doors. Felix gives Sylvain a look that translates to something along the lines of _Be on your guard_ and Sylvain makes himself dizzy again by nodding. He hopes the vulnerary will kick in soon, because if someone does launch an attack in the _suspiciously empty foyer_, he’s not entirely sure that he’ll be able to provide much support when the room is spinning.

Felix starts off across the cold tile floor, wrestling the cat basket as he goes. Sylvain waits a beat before following and they almost make it to the door unbothered, when a voice cuts across the silence.

“Stop!”

Sylvain spins around to find the Grand Duke of Itha standing at the top of the staircase, seething and breathing heavily. Well, he can only _assume_ he’s the Grand Duke, because he’s never actually seen the man, thanks to Felix. Sylvain supposes he can’t go far wrong in identifying him. He’s like an older, decidedly more haggard and pretentious looking, Dimitri.

“I’m sorry!” the healer calls from behind the Duke, paler than he probably would have been if he’d seen a ghost. “I tried to distract him but he—”

“Silence, you traitorous worm,” the Duke spits.

“I thought you told us to be gone by morning,” Felix says casually. “Had a change of heart?”

“You think I’m just going to let you waltz back to your Child King and wait patiently for my renouncement?” The Duke waddles down the stairs, grabbing on to the banister in an attempt to hasten his descent. “Over my dead body.”

“Oh, don’t tempt me,” Felix mutters.

The Duke stalks over to them with the all the pomp of an esteemed noble, only he looks even more ridiculous, because he’s still wearing his nightclothes.

“Hi, I’m Sylvain,” Sylvain proffers a hand, hoping that _maybe_ he’ll be able to smooth things over. Instead, his hand just hangs between them awkwardly. The Duke stares at it as though Sylvain is offering him a handful of vomit, rather than a courteous pleasantry. “No? OK.” He tucks his hand back in to his trouser pocket.

“You are meddling in things you do not understand, this is _my_ territory, and I will not be bullied and pushed around by two tactless buffoons.”

“Oh, Felix, ‘_Tactless buffoons’_ that’s a new one.”

Nemesis snarls inside the basket and Felix has to tighten his grip before he drops it entirely. “Yes, it is.”

“Can’t even disagree with him either, we _are_ both pretty tactless.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Felix, you—you literally caused this.”

“No I did—OK maybe I _did_ but—”

“Are you two quite finished?” The Duke fumes, watching them bicker with incredulity.

“Yeah, I guess,” Sylvain says and Felix scoffs. “But listen, Mr. Duke, what Felix said was right. The way you’ve treated your people - it’s unforgivable. When was the last time you even left this manor to check on them?”

“That is none of your business.” His face is getting redder by the second. Sylvain suddenly feels as though he owes Felix an honest-to-Goddess _medal_ for not causing this man any bodily harm. He feels immensely proud and touched that he refrained from doing so on Sylvain’s behalf. That might all end pretty soon though, because Felix has gone chillingly still.

“Uh, it kind of is. You know with all the—”

“I’m not here to chat!” the Duke interjects. His voice is lined with hysteria and Sylvain takes a subtle step backward. “I’m not here to re-negotiate or endure another unwarranted lecture on how I should run _my_ territory. I’m here to stop you.”

“Oh, well, then in that case, can you hurry on with it? We have somewhere to be.”

“You conniving _brats_!” The Duke lunges forward. A flash of metal alerts Sylvain to the presence of a knife. Felix doesn’t seem perturbed, he simply puts a hand on Sylvain’s chest and pushes him further back against the wall just in time to dodge a sharp swipe. Just as quickly, Felix sends a hard kick in to the Duke’s shin in retaliation and watches him with complete indifference as he yelps and doubles over in pain.

Felix picks his foot up and brings the heel of it down against the Duke’s hand. The knife clatters to the floor and Felix artfully pushes it out of reach with the toe of his boot. Nemesis seems to hate the entire exchange, causing more racket inside the basket than ever before.

“Shh,” Felix says, peering through the wicker. “You need to keep—” He cuts himself off and his lips spread in to a smile. Sylvain’s not sure whether he finds the look terrifying, or extremely attractive. He quickly decides _both._

The Duke staggers to his feet again, more pissed off than ever. Sylvain just watches the spectacle from the safety of his position against the foyer wall, too tired and achy to even contemplate getting involved – it’s not as though Felix needs the help against a man of this calibre.

The Duke earns the slightest shred of respect from Sylvain though when he attempts to face Felix head on with nothing but his bare hands. It’s gutsy, if nothing else. He lunges at Felix, fists raised. Felix doesn’t even bother to move, he just lifts the lid of the basket and Nemesis does the rest for him. The cat leaps from the basket and pounces on to the Duke’s face, claws digging in to his wrinkled skin. He screeches and staggers backwards, trying to pry the hairy beast from his head, but Nemesis is snarling and hissing and biting the Duke in an altogether quite impressive display of power.

“Wow,” Felix says, watching the Duke wrestle with Nemesis, twirling and stumbling around the foyer. It’s quite the spectacle. Sylvain could probably watch it continue for hours and not get bored. He’s already taking notes for his new romantic-comedy street performing script.

Sylvain’s amusement diminishes eventually, though, when the Duke hits his head on the ornate statue protruding from the staircase bannister with a dull _thwack_. Nemesis extricates himself from the Duke before he falls in to an unconscious heap on the ground, and trots away as though he’s done nothing at all, simply content to be outside of the basket prison.

“Well that was easy,” Sylvain says, walking over to the Duke to check he’s still breathing. “And satisfying. Hey, he’s just unconscious,” he clarifies to the healer who’s still standing at the top of the stairs, frozen in fear.

“I’m not saying you should tie him up and take him hostage,” Felix says to him, “because that would be morally dubious of me. However, you should definitely tie him up and lock him in a room somewhere until our team gets here.”

The healer nods soundlessly, rushing down the staircase to check for himself that the Duke is, in fact, still alive and they haven’t all just committed murder. Sylvain would probably blame the cat anyway.

“What do I do?” the healer asks, voice uneven, hands shaking.

“Tie his hands behind his back,” Felix says, “lock him in his office and feed him every couple of hours. We’ll handle the rest when we get back. Just don’t let him make any orders. Especially ones that sound like he’s trying to kill us.”

“O-OK,” he stutters. “Thank you.”

Felix holds up his hands. “Thank the cat.”

Sylvain walks over and pats the healer on the shoulder with an encouraging smile. “I guess you’re in charge around here until things get smoothed over, kid. Good luck.”

The healer blanches and looks from the unconscious, scratch-faced Duke, to Sylvain in amazement. He nods again, and Sylvain feels lightheaded just watching him spiral in to a whirlpool of thought.

“You’d best leave,” the healer says, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “The sooner you leave, um, the sooner you can get back.”

“Right you are,” Sylvain grins. “Well, thanks again. I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but—no you know what, it _has _actually been quite amusing. We’ll see you soon!”

** ** **

Walking back through Itha is strange. The Beast still lies where it fell in the centre of town, although there are numerous ropes tied to its limbs - most likely attached in an attempt to begin moving it somewhere less imposing until it rots away. Sylvain looks at it with a strange sense of detachment. The last he can remember of it being alive and screeching was when the huge, clawed fist had thrown him against the building. Just glancing at it makes him shiver with the memory of what it felt like to have his ribs explode from within his chest.

“I never got to ask,” Sylvain says as they walk through the quiet town. “What happened once I was knocked out?”

Felix pauses for a moment and then shrugs. “Can’t really remember the details. I stabbed it, though. I think. And then the lightning hit.”

“_Lightning_? Damn, I always miss the good stuff.”

“That’s because you’re always being an idiot,” Felix mutters.

“Aw, Felix, that’s so sweet of you. All these cute names you come up with for me, they really set my heart all aflutter.”

Felix grimaces. “In that case, I’m going to have to try harder to come up with new insults.”

Sylvain knocks Felix’s shoulder with a smile. “Didn’t I tell you before, that I’m fluent in Felix? I know they all mean ‘I love you’.”

“Not _all_ of them can mean that,” Felix rolls his eyes. “Some of them definitely mean ‘I tolerate you’.”

Sylvain slings an arm around Felix’s shoulder, and is pleased when it no longer feels agonising to do so – the vulnerary has kicked in beautifully. “Yeah, yeah,” he grins. “I ‘_tolerate’_ you too.”

When being entirely honest with himself, Sylvain can’t quite believe he even _is_ ‘_tolerable’. _But if anyone is going to make him believe otherwise, to teach him that it’s OK to be loved and wanted for something other than his stupid crest, it’s Felix. Brutally honest and passionate Felix.

“Hey, Felix,” he says after a while. “What’s going to happen when we get back?”

“We’re going to get Dimitri to renounce his uncle, I thought we were clear on this?”

“No, not with Itha. I mean--I mean with us. Like, is it going to be different?”

Being on this trip, it’s different than being back at the monastery after all. Sylvain can’t help but feel as though it’s all still a dream, that he doesn’t quite deserve it, and as soon as they get back to their ordinary lives, Felix will suddenly feel different. He’ll get bored like Sylvain did with all of those girls back in his academy days and karma will have its way with him.

“Why would it be different?”

“I don’t know,” he laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “You’re not going to change your mind when we’re back home?”

Felix scowls and throws Sylvain’s arm off his shoulder. “Nothing’s going to change,” he says. “I loved you before we left for this stupid trip and I’ll love you after it. Unless _you’re_ having a change of heart - which I would kill you for, make no mistake - then there’s nothing to worry about. Idiot,” he adds for good measure. “Now give me your stupid hand.”

The words, though veiled with insults, cut like a sharpened blade through Sylvain’s insecurities. Felix has always been a master swordsman after all, whether the blade be in his hand, or disguised as his tongue, he always wields it with precision.

Sylvain laughs when he slips his hand in to Felix’s, and this time, it’s relieved. “OK then, in that case, are you going to move in to my room?”

Felix ponders the proposition seriously, before saying, “No, your room is ugly. Also, it doesn’t have any of my swords. But I’ll make room for you on my floor if you want to share a room that badly.”

“Your _floor_? Felix! We’ve shared a forest together.”

“Yeah, and it was horrendous. You’re like a slobbering hound. And you snore.”

Sylvain swings their hands between them, glad to notice that the town still sleeps and he can act foolishly without repercussion or scorn. “What’s that? You can’t wait to share a bed with me because I’m so soft and warm? You’re spoiling me.”

“As soon as we get back I’m taking you to Mercedes to get your ears checked. That Beast must have knocked the sense out of you.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, Felix. I had no sense to begin with.”

“We both know that’s a lie.”

Sylvain smiles. There’s something about Felix’s compliments that make Sylvain breathless. Maybe it’s because they’re so few and far between, or maybe it’s because Felix doesn’t even _realise_ when he’s doing it, but they’re always so hopelessly genuine, that Sylvain can’t help but be taken aback.

“Hm, at least something good came of this trip,” Sylvain grins, squeezing Felix’s hand tighter.

“I don’t know, I’d say it’s been a largely successful journey. Took down some bandits, killed a Demonic Beast, uncovered a corrupt Duke and watched a cat maul his face off –-”

“—Fell in love—” Sylvain adds, batting his eyelashes in Felix’s direction.

“—I bet the idiots stuck on bandit clean up are going to be so jealous when we get back,” Felix continues, ignoring him, but Sylvain catches the quirked corners of his lips as they betray him to smile.

“Your… unusual sense of enjoyment is an acquired taste, Felix. I’m not quite sure the others share it.”

“Whatever. I just hope that Dimitri doesn’t burst a vessel worrying over us returning late. I need to be the one to lecture _him_ first, not the other way around.”

“It’s not actually his fault that his uncle is a spineless pig,” Sylvain reminds him.

“Maybe so. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to act like it is though.”

“Cool. Make sure I’m there for it. I like watching you get angry. It’s hot.”

Felix lets out the largest sigh that Sylvain has ever heard, and turns his head abruptly in any direction he can find that is _not_ Sylvain’s. “You—I—you know what? _Never mind._ Goddess, you’re embarrassing.”

“I told you to get used to it. Not my fault you’re so attractive.”

“Ha,” Felix scoffs. “Guess now you know how I’ve felt all these years.”

“Oh?” Sylvain’s eyebrows shoot up his face and his cheeks hurt from how long he’s been holding such a wide smile. “You think I’m attractive?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Sylvain. You don’t need _me_ to tell you that.”

“But I like it. Come on, Felix, tell me how handsome I am.”

“How about I kill you instead?” Felix mumbles, cheeks a nice shade of pink.

“Hmm, last time I checked, all your weapons got melted. Good luck with that.”

As though demonstrating that he does not, in fact, need a weapon to kill Sylvain, Felix sends a harmless jolt of _thunder_ in to his palm to shock him. Sylvain doesn’t remove his hand though. He’s not letting Felix get away that easily.

“Ouch! Felix!”

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence. “It was either that, or head butt you in the ‘_handsome’ _face.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” Sylvain laughs.

** ** **

It’s colder back in the forest. The trees angle in such a way that the small amounts of sunlight that actually manage peak through the clouds are obscured and blocked by the leaves. Felix and Sylvain walk shoulder to shoulder, leeching off of each other’s body heat, wishing desperately for their old clothes. The white shirts, though extremely pleasing to the eye, are _definitely_ not made for such cold weather. Felix hasn’t stopped shivering for the past twenty minutes and Sylvain, tragically, doesn’t even have a coat to chivalrously drape over his shoulders. It’s nothing short of a living nightmare.

“Hey! The boat is still here. How about that?”

“That’s the biggest surprise of the week,” Felix laughs.

“It’s kind of cute, isn’t it?” Sylvain coos, watching the small pile of wood float inconspicuously in the lake. The knots keeping it in place are exactly as Felix left them – it’s just been sitting there, patiently waiting for their return.

“It’s a boat,” Felix deadpans.

“Yeah, but, look at it.” Sylvain motions at the boat, and they both stare as though it might start doing tricks. “It holds so many memories. Remember when I capsized it? Seems like years ago.”

“I wish it _was_ years ago,” Felix mutters. “It's been _days_ and I'm still damp.”

“Tell me about it. I’m still not sure I can feel my feet properly.”

Nemesis pads along the dock, jumping in to the boat as though prompting them to stop delaying the journey.

“Do you think they’re going to let us keep the cat?”

“I really don’t care what any single person inside that monastery thinks about our cat, Sylvain. We’re keeping him. He can be our compensation. I’ll force Dimitri to exercise his Royal Authority or something.”

“Wow, like him that much? Do I have competition?”

Felix makes a face. “First and foremost, he’s a _cat._ Second, he’s vicious and I like him.”

“That’s so unsettling.”

Felix shrugs and starts to untie the knots, hands so cold that they’re fumbling.

“Fucking, useless weather,” he grits through teeth when he’s no closer to untying them near five minutes later.

“Here, let me,” Sylvain says as he heats up some _fire_ in his hands.

“Please don’t set the whole boat on fire.”

“Felix, please. I’m a professional.”

Sylvain doesn’t set the boat on fire, but he does lose a modicum of control over his flame when he sneezes during the intricate process of burning through the rope. He ends up having to throw the flaming remains in to the lake, and watches it hiss under the freezing water. If Felix notices, he doesn’t say anything, which Sylvain is grateful for.

The boat is just as uncomfortable as Sylvain remembers; the wooden planks are already flattening his ass, and he’s only been sitting in it for a grand total of ten minutes. Despite feeling sufficiently energised, Felix rows. It doesn’t look like much of a struggle - the current is no longer against them, Felix could sit idly and the water would take them downstream naturally. He’s also no longer rowing like he’s trying to set some kind of record, so Sylvain just sits back to appreciate the view.

After a while of travelling Sylvain can no longer ignore the growling of his stomach, and digs in to the food prepared by the kitchen staff. Though it’s bland, it’s good and it fills the void of emptiness that’s been haunting him since waking. Healing magic really takes a lot out of a person, and judging by how much damage Felix scolded him for taking, he really is lucky to still be walking.

Felix willingly swaps with him to eat his fill, and Sylvain can’t suppress the laugh that bubbles up when Felix grimaces at the food’s sweetness.

“Goddess,” Felix says, forcing himself to swallow a mouthful of sweet bun. “This is just pure sugar.” He says the word ‘sugar’ with the same amount of disdain as he would the word ‘piss’ or something equally as vulgar. It doesn’t stop him from finishing the entire thing though, and Sylvain wonders if maybe he’s exaggerating slightly for the sake of his image which is both hilarious and hopelessly endearing.

The boat ambles onward and the forest passes in a blur of green and brown as they pick up speed. They don’t even bother with the map – the journey remains linear from here on out after all. Sylvain’s just waiting for the sun to set for an excuse to wrap himself up in Felix and not let go until the morning.

Eventually, they pass through what Sylvain knows is Fraldarius territory, and he can’t help but notice the way Felix’s eyebrows knit together as he confronts painful memories.

“Want to take over rowing?” he asks, offering him the chance at distraction. Felix bolts upright and seems relieved to take over the responsibility, pouring all of his frustration and emotion in to rowing as fast as he possibly can. Sylvain doesn’t want to admit that the speed is starting to make him feel nauseated, but his stomach definitely isn’t happy with their - what must be bordering illegal by now - speed.

The storm in Felix’s eyes passes after a few quiet hours. Sylvain knows better than to push him in to conversation when it concerns his complicated relationship with his father, just like how Sylvain appreciates not being pressured in to talking about his own complications. They’ve always worked well that way, and maybe that’s one of the reasons Sylvain feels as though he could spend a lifetime with Felix and never live to see a day where the flame of his feelings dulls.

Evening crawls in and with it comes a new layer of chill to the air. Every splash of water that makes it over the side makes Felix curse and Sylvain has taken to keeping his hands cupped between them both maintaining a flickering flame of _fire_. It doesn’t do much to alleviate the cold, being so small, but Felix’s hands no longer look as numb around the wooden oars and the orange glow makes the altogether boring boat ride somehow feel romantic. If capsizing the boat wasn’t such a huge risk, Sylvain would have attempted to reach over to feel Felix’s lips against his own again, because he’d be Fódlan’s most atrocious liar if he were to say he hadn’t been thinking of kissing Felix again since their lips had parted that morning.

“Oh? You’re pulling over early,” Sylvain says an hour later. It’s not like Felix to sacrifice even a minute of sunlight during their travels, and there’s still a while left before the sun fully sets. “You OK?”

“I’m fine,” Felix says evenly, throwing an oar in to the river bank to halt their speed and bring them to a stop. Wordlessly, they vacate the boat, completing the well-practiced routine of heaving the boat on to land and finding somewhere to camp for the night.

“Hey, Felix,” Sylvain says, piercing the heavy silence with the _click_ of his wooden case; a nice cup of pine tea will probably serve nicely in warming them up. “Is there any fire wood—?”

Sylvain is hauled to his feet by the front of his shirt before he can finish asking his question. Felix stands before him, eyebrows drawn together again as though he’s thinking. Standing, Sylvain towers slightly over him, but Felix still remains in control, pulling their faces closer together by the fabric of Sylvain’s shirt until they’re a breath apart.

“Can I?” Felix’s voice is barely audible, and he’s glancing down at Sylvain’s lips.

Sylvain’s mind melts, but he manages to solidify it long enough to answer him by placing his hands on Felix’s waist and closing the distance. Felix kisses like he lives, passionately, fiercely, and leaving Sylvain breathless. And this time, Sylvain can truly appreciate what’s happening – he’s no longer battling the tremendous ache in his side or trying to come to terms with the shock of Felix’s confession. No, this time he’s left with nothing but the feeling of Felix’s lips moving against his own, the feel of Felix beneath his hands as he tightens his grip on his waist and pulls him even closer, and the knowledge that Felix is here and loves him with equal fervour.

“I’ve wanted to do that since this morning,” Sylvain says when they break long enough to breathe. “You beat me to it.”

“Hmph, sounds like I’m winning,” he says.

“It’s not a competition, Felix,” Sylvain chuckles.

“You’re only saying that because you’re losing.”

“Not for long,” Sylvain says, reigniting the kiss. Felix laughs against his lips, threading his hands in to Sylvain’s hair. The feeling of his fingers carding through the mass of tangles makes him sigh and melt under the touch and he wishes he could return the favour and remove Felix’s hair tie to find out if Felix’s hair is as soft as it looks. He puts it on the to-do list once they get back to the monastery. That’s also probably some kind of blasphemy - fantasising about all of the Felix-related desires he intends to make a reality on holy grounds - but Sylvain’s way passed the point of caring.

At some point, they end up on the ground. Sylvain can feel stray twigs and stones digging in to the backs of his thighs and the palms of his hands that keep them both upright, but he’s too lost in Felix to really even process the pain and discomfort. Their kisses progress from urgent and desperate to soft and relaxed as they explore each other languidly and peacefully. Sylvain relishes every moment, every hitched breath, and every sigh against his lips as they lose themselves in the quiet of the forest.

Too soon for Sylvain’s liking, Felix breaks away for the foreseeable future to actually gather some firewood, but he supposes there’s plenty of time waiting ahead of them to catch up on their years of ‘not-kissing’. Sylvain could honestly _kick_ himself for not saying something sooner. He’d been hoping and praying that Felix had only come to his realisation whilst on this trip, but hearing that Felix has been in love with him since their academy days makes Sylvain feel nothing short of agonised at the prospect of having missed out on so much happiness. _Serves my right for being such a fool,_ he thinks. _But at least we’re here now._

Felix finds a decent amount of wood – just enough to burn for a couple of hours, and Sylvain breaks out the tea set. He heats up some of Felix’s favourite tea, and he opens his legs just enough to call Felix over to sit between them. Steaming cup in hand, Felix leans back against Sylvain’s chest and they sit, watching the water until the sun sets in its entirety - and Nemesis rip apart a bird he’s hunted.

“When did you realise?” Felix suddenly asks, blowing cool air on to his piping hot tea.

“Realise what?”

“That you felt the same way.”

“Hm,” Sylvain says, setting his cup aside, snaking his arms around Felix’s middle and resting his chin on his shoulder. “It’s hard to say exactly, because I’ve always loved you in one way or another.”

Felix chokes slightly on his tea, spilling some of the scalding liquid on to his own lap. He hisses and curses and collects himself before muttering, “Continue.”

Sylvain laughs. “But I guess I _really_ started pining after you some time before the Battle of the Eagle and Lion.”

“Really? Why?”

Sylvain shrugs and accidentally sends more tea spilling on to Felix’s trousers. “Woops, sorry. Um, well, I guess I just… OK, remember when I asked you to choose between your training and our friendship?” He waits for Felix to nod. “After you walked away I pretty much had an existential crisis and realised I wanted to be _way_ more than just your friend.”

“As long ago as that?” Felix sounds offended. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I could say the same for you, Felix,” Sylvain laughs and tightens his hold around him. “I guess I just never thought you would ever feel the same way, so I kept it to myself. Risking our friendship was too high stakes. What about you? When did you realise?”

Felix mumbles something in to his tea cup that Sylvain can’t quite hear.

“What was that?”

“I _said,_ our first day at the academy,” he grumbles.

Sylvain grins. “Did I look _that_ dashing in uniform?”

“Shut up.”

“I’ll take that as an _absolutely._”

“Every time I looked at your stupid face, I wanted to throw something at you.”

“Gosh, Felix, you’re so romantic. I’m so lucky.”

They sit together, wrapped in each other, talking about everything and nothing, and when the water looks more black than blue, and slivers of reflected moonlight dance on its still surface, Felix finally extricates himself from Sylvain long enough to stamp the fire out. He doesn’t stay away for long though, he ends up back at Sylvain’s side within a few seconds and he doesn’t complain once, despite his earlier protests, when Sylvain wraps his arms around him and uses his chest as a pillow again.

Sylvain manages to stay awake long enough to hear a soft, “Goodnight, Sylvain,” and feel a soft kiss against his forehead before he succumbs to sleep.

** ** **

Galatea is a welcome sight. Felix quickly reminds Sylvain of his promise to replace his demolished dagger, and swiftly pulls the boat aside as soon as they reach the lake.

“I’ll buy you a new tea set when we get home,” Felix insists as they walk shoulder-to-shoulder through the familiar market.

“But there’s nothing wrong with my tea set,” Sylvain says, frowning.

“Is this some kind of sick joke? Or do you genuinely believe that it’s _not_ the most hideous set of pottery to ever make it outside of the kiln?” Sylvain frowns and Felix grimaces. “Oh, _Goddess,_” he says. “Fine, keep your ugly tea set. And stop making that face. I’ll buy you something else instead.”

“Hmm, but what if what I want can’t be bought?” Sylvain says with a suggestive raise of his eyebrows.

“Then you’ll still have to wait until we get back to the monastery,” Felix says, unperturbed by Sylvain’s change of mood in a busy market place. He’s got a one track mind, and his eyes haven’t left the weapon stall that looms in the near distance.

“No fair,” Sylvain pouts. “And how come you’re not blushing? I like it when you blush, it’s cute.”

“You’ll have to try harder than that. I’ve had your tongue down my throat all morning and—Oh! Here we are.”

They stop in front of the weapon stall, and the vendor seems to recognise them. She sends Sylvain a kind, sympathetic smile – he’d had quite the lengthy conversation with her the last time he’d been here, all but spilling his heart upon the table, gushing about how cool Felix and his love for weapons was. He sends her a look that he hopes says _Please don’t bring it up, please don’t--_

“Back so soon?” the woman asks.

“Yeah, I guess,” Felix says. “The last one got melted.”

“_Melted_?” the vendor looks offended on the dagger’s behalf.

“Demonic Beast,” Sylvain says apologetically, which earns him another bewildered stare. “So, which one do you want, Felix?”

He pauses for a moment, pressing a finger to his lip as his eyes scan the selection. “You pick,” he says eventually.

“Me? Why? It’s supposed to be a gift for you.”

“Just pick your favourite, idiot.”

Sylvain looks down at the collection. Nothing much differentiates them. Sylvain can’t for the life of him discern what makes each of them individual other than the gem stones sitting proudly and glistening in the hilts. He tries not to burden himself by thinking too heavily about the weapon specifications and reminds himself instead that Felix just wants him to pick whichever one calls to him. It’s an easy task, really. Except, Sylvain doesn’t want to disappoint Felix with his choice. He thinks on it for a while, staring at each one as though they might whisper the correct answer. Sylvain eventually settles for the dagger with the sapphire stone flanked by two smaller amber stones, and points to it.

“That one,” he says. The vendor smiles and picks it up, handing it over to Felix while Sylvain sorts through his remaining stash of money.

“Did I pick the right one?” he asks as they walk back to the boat.

“There was no right choice,” Felix says, admiring his new dagger. “I just wanted the one _you_ picked. But yes, if it pleases you to know, it was a great choice,” he adds when Sylvain keeps searching his expression for any hint of disappointment regarding his selection.

“Try not to get it melted by a natural weather phenomenon this time,” Sylvain grins.

“What are you talking about? This one’s going in my private collection,” Felix says.

“Oh, it’s _that_ special?”

“Yes,” Felix says. “You picked it.”

Sylvain feels his heart surge inside his chest and stares at Felix dumbly as they walk. “_Goddess,_” he finally manages to groan. “Have I ever told you that I love you, Felix?”

“You may have mentioned it,” Felix says, quietly averting his gaze. Sylvain doesn’t comment on the blush decorating the tips of Felix’s ears, lest it disappear. But he does smile up at the sky and thank the Goddess for allowing him a chance at true happiness.

** ** **

“Welcome back, boys!” the boat skipper bellows from his chair the moment he catches their boat rounding the river bend. “She was good for you, I hope?”

“The boat was fine,” Felix says, bringing them to a stop at the dock. The skipper throws them a piece of knotted rope that Felix loops over the protruding piece of wood to keep it from floating away. Nemesis jumps out first, closely followed by Felix and then Sylvain all but vaults out of it, glad to finally be rid of the blasted thing.

“Good to see you back in one piece,” the skipper says. “Though you’re a bit later than was expected. Run in to some trouble?”

“You could say that,” Sylvain grins. “Nothing we couldn’t handle though.”

“Well that’s great news then. Glad me and my little boat was able to be of some service to the Kingdom.”

Felix sounds bored when he says, “Your help is greatly appreciated. We’ll be on our way now.”

“Of course,” the skipper says. “Any time you be needing my boat again, just let me know.”

“Thanks again,” Sylvain says before Felix can accidentally say something rude.

They set off back through Charon and Felix is practically vibrating with excitement at Sylvain’s side at the prospect of yelling at Dimitri. Sylvain is excited to get home for a multitude of other reasons, mainly finally getting the chance to bathe; he probably would have started growing mould if they’d had to travel another day.

Sylvain can’t contain his laughter when he catches Felix absentmindedly humming the vulnerary song halfway back to Garreg Mach. His face is thunderous when Sylvain starts his own lively rendition, but he ends up joining in, albeit reluctantly, when it’s apparent that Sylvain isn’t going to give up on his mission to get Felix to sing any time soon. Even Nemesis adds to the chorus, offering some impressively timed _meows_ as they go. 

Dimitri, Dedue and Professor Byleth are waiting at the gates when they finally approach Garreg Mach - someone must have spotted Felix and Sylvain coming in the distance and alerted them to their return. Although, Sylvain prefers entertaining the idea that they’ve all been standing there for three days waiting with baited breath and the same tragic expressions - it makes for better drama.

Felix’s pace increases considerably when he spots Dimitri’s concerned face; driven by pure petty spite he takes the steps two at a time, leaving Sylvain lagging behind to watch him amusedly.

“Felix! Sylvain! Thank the _Goddess_ you’re—”

“Blaidydd!” Felix yells. “Here, you can have _this_ back!” Sylvain almost chokes on his laughter when Felix removes the message canister from his pocket and throws it at the King of Faerghus. Dedue catches it easily, handing it much more politely to Dimitri instead.

Dimitri looks confused as he stares down at the message canister, turning it over in his hands as though he’s searching it for physical defects.

Sylvain finally joins Felix at the top of the steps to hear him say, “Your uncle is a good-for-nothing, piece-of-shit prick stain.”

Sylvain wishes he could immortalise Dimitri’s face in this moment. It’s nothing short of _priceless. _Dimitri looks to Sylvain as though he’ll shed some light on the situation, but the last thing Sylvain wants to do is ruin Felix’s fun, so he just shrugs in response.

“What happened to you both?” the professor asks, giving them both a once over. “Where are your clothes?”

Felix turns on the professor and fixes him with a scowl. “Dimitri’s ‘uncle’ was keeping a pet Demonic Beast and letting it run rampant around Itha.”

“I almost died,” Sylvain adds with a smile.

“Sylvain almost died,” Felix echoes.

“Uncle Rufus was… _what?_” Dimitri blanches.

“Yes, there’s been a slight change in plan,” Felix says, voice bitter and scathing. “You’re going to have to renounce your uncle rather than rely on him, or Sylvain and I are going to look like idiots and the people of Itha are going to be pretty pissed off.”

There’s a joke in there somewhere; Sylvain knows that the professor is probably thinking it under that impassive expression of his. _You already look like idiots,_ it says. Sylvain can only agree.

“We’d best take this inside,” Dimitri says and Felix scoffs, but follows him through the gate and back in to the monastery. Sylvain watches him march forth at Dimitri’s side, spitting insults and relaying their journey in exaggerative detail with a fond smile.

“Good trip?” the professor asks with a knowing smile.

“_Great_ trip,” Sylvain grins. “When’s the next one?”

“I’ll be sure to let you know,” he says, and Sylvain sincerely hopes he does, because if every trip with Felix ends with him feeling this contented and merry, he’ll gladly travel to the moon and back and fight a thousand Demonic Beasts along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOOOOOOO boy this was a wild ride ! thank you all so much for reading and sticking with this story, and for all the lovely comments and kudos!!!! i hope you enjoyed it as much as i enjoyed writing it!!! peace <33   
as always, come and join me on twitter and talk to me about fe3h and cry or smth @ berriesmangoes

**Author's Note:**

> hi!!! this is my first multi-chapter fic so be gentle. i have no idea how many chapters it'll end up being lmao  
also follow me on twitter and talk to me about fire emblem!!! @ berriesmangoes


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